I Love To Go A-Wandering
by Lampito
Summary: One of Heaven's most relentlessly cheerful residents has gone wandering, along with one of Hell's most feared. It's serious; it could cause an inter-pantheon diplomatic incident. Castiel, Sheriff of Heaven, sends a suitably senior Messenger to join Hell's representative in pursuit of the peripatetic perpetrators, to fetch them. Preferably before Mjolnir gets stolen. Again.
1. Chapter 1

Over in 'Escapees From The Plot Bunny Farm', this prompt was suggested:

**bluroux wrote:**

_Would you consider writing a bit about Jimi Senior and Crowley's Gedda having a romp through some of the afterlives/underworlds? Maybe they could visit Valhalla together?  
Possibly, Crowley would have to team up with Gabriel to collect them and smooth things over with various Supernatural beings?_

This little plot bunny jumped out of an autoclave today (so maybe his name is Stewie), and started whispering. I think we might end up getting more than a simple one-shot out of him, so I'll set this up as a new story, write something, and see if that encourages him.

**Disclaimer:** They're not mine, which is probably good, because if they tried to filch my beer I'd slap them until they cried (does any bloke on he planet cry as prettily as Dean?)

**Title:** I Love To Go A-Wandering

**Rating:** T. Because this story is being written on a laptop that is also used to write fics that contain Dean Winchester, and I cannot promise a completely Dean-free story.

**Summary:** Dogs Go To Heaven. And sometimes, to Valhalla, Elysium, Jannah, Swaga Loka. the Field of Reeds... One of Heaven's most relentlessly cheerful residents has gone wandering, along with one of Hell's most feared It's serious; it could cause an inter-pantheon diplomatic incident. Castiel, Sheriff of Heaven, sends a suitably senior Messenger to join Hell's representative in pursuit of the peripatetic perpetrators, to fetch them. Preferably before Mjolnir gets stolen. Again.

_ETA:_ Now with Frisbee-soliciting dog corrected to Jimi Junior! Well spotted, Gradgirl89.

* * *

**I LOVE TO GO A-WANDERING**

**Chapter One**

Denariel, Heaven's Guardian of Companions, saw the old man in the simple Franciscan habit waiting for her by the gate to the Garden of Companions.

"Hello, Fra Francis," she greeted him, "Why are you here?"

"Ah, a little bird told me," he grinned at her – the joke never got old for him – "That you might need a little bit of help today, _si_?"

She looked down the list of her latest arrivals, and was unable to suppress a small sigh.

"Thank you, Fra Francis," she managed a smile, "I would, as always, appreciate any help you can give me with... They."

As the Angel of the Lord in charge of watching over the souls of pets who were Waiting until their humans died and came to reunite with them, she was one of the lowest ranked angels of the Host, but she didn't care about that. She loved her job, and found it to be gratifying, rewarding and fulfilling, full of simple joy and perfect examples of unconditional love.

And yet...

Castiel, her older brother who was keeping order in Heaven until such time as their Father chose to return, had told her that she might look at it as an opportunity to practise Tolerance, Forbearance, Charity and Forgiveness. He confided that this was how he approached the situation whenever Danael, Archivist and Senior Librarian of the Celestial Library, sent one of his documents back, covered in corrections made with her Red Pen Of Fury (which she wielded the same way an archangel would wield a blade against the Ancient Foe). Such thoughts and actions were appropriate for an angel, and would surely please their Father.

And yet...

It wasn't that she didn't love them the way she loved all her charges, even Alphonse the amorous skunk, Juanita the neurotic capybara, Na Li the grumpy albino python, Bong Su the elephant who actually was afraid of mice, and Susie the enormous sow (who, destined to be bacon, had instead become a 700lb pet who sometimes still thought she was a piglet capable of curling up in somebody's lap). It was just that, well, nobody had ever anticipated that dogs with Hellhound blood – let alone one who had once been a full-blood Hellhound – would ever arrive in Heaven to Wait.

It was all just part of the wonder of Father's Creation, Castiel had told her.

In her less charitable moments, she wondered exactly how much paperwork Father had had in mind, or whether administration was something that Michael had tacked on afterwards, what with having a bit of a stick up his bottom, if she was honest.

Fantasising about their human keepers coming to collect them was a guilty pleasure for her in the quieter moments. Chances were, the old man would arrive first, still wearing his trucker's hat, and announce without preamble "I'm here for Rumsfeld, Rumsfeld, Rumsfeld, Janis, Patch, Rumsfeld, Rosie, Rumsfeld, Shiloh and Rumsfeld." Or possibly the wolf woman, who wouldn't bother to ask, she'd just howl a summons, and it would be farewell to Diesel and Mako and Arko and Joni and Lita and Ares and Chopper (although she thought she might miss Mako a little; free of his crude physical body, his spirit manifested as one of the most handsome and sweet-tempered dogs she'd ever encountered). And then, and then, oh, she hoped it would be the elder Winchester, with his irrepressible smirk, and he'd saunter up to her, and announce in that cocky drawl, "I'm here for the Jimis, Senior and Junior..."

It would never end now, of course: the bloodline was as established as the Wildhunt line, and for the foreseeable future, there would be dogs carrying the Blood of the Pit to the Hunt alongside their Hunters. Which meant that there would be an ever-changing pack of them under her care in the Garden of Companions. Which meant there would be a never-ending stream of curt notes from Danael, and gentle reminders from Castiel, and apologies for her to write, when they were at their most boisterous. She muttered her thanks to Father once more that at least she had Fra Francis of Assisi and Bruder Gerlac of Valkenburg to offer their endlessly cheerful help. And of course, Fra Antonio could do double duty, as a patron of animals, and also of helping find lost items.

And so...

She put on her most welcoming face, and went with St Francis to greet her newest arrivals.

And there they were, front and centre. Not one, but two. Brothers, who had given their lives in the Hunt, to save their Hunters, which was what Hunters' dogs did. The larger one beamed happily at her, his big floppy ears pricked up and his tail wagging, while his smaller brother eyed her in a calculating manner, sizing her up, clearly contemplating the best way to try to solicit treats.

"So then," she began cheerfully, "Lemmy and Lars, here you are! I suppose you'll be wanting to join your..."

The rapidly approaching barking of a large pack presaged the arrival of They.

She wasn't sure exactly when the term had been coined and acquired a capital letter to describe the rambling pack that included all the dogs descended from Heaven's first Hellhound and assorted associates; it just grew out of dealing with them, as in, "Fra Francis, could you see what They are doing over there?", or "Denariel, are you aware that They have been digging holes in the Firmament – again?" (from Danael), or "What in Father's name are They up to now?", or "You know that They require constant vigilance" (Danael again). Grammar was sacrificed on the altar of collective nominatism ("It would be prudent to count They again, just to make sure"; "Denariel, will you please come and fetch They from the Throne Room, the Choir are standing on their stalls and screaming"; "Danael wants some information about Earthly satellite tracking, and wonders whether a celestial version might work on They") to the point where even the Senior Librarian no longer corrected the capitalisation or the use of the word as an object.

The canine chaos of They swirled around her, tails wagging and eyes dancing, greeting the new arrivals to their ranks. Lars and Lemmy engaged in a happy growl-rassle with their sire Jimi Junior, and nuzzled affectionately at Patch, the unusual dog who had whelped them. Denariel found herself smiling in spite of herself. These welcoming rituals played out every time one of them came to Wait, and the unalloyed joy and affection was like the most devout human prayer unto her Father.

"Er, Denariel," began Fra Francis, scratching Jimi Junior under the chin as the big happy face butted at him in a hint that he would love a game of halo-frisbee, "I believe we may be one short."

"What?" She did a quick head count, and failed to suppress a small groan. "Oh, no."

With a sigh, she trudged back to her cosy work space to write a notification to Castiel, to keep him informed. Then, on the off chance that somebody might spot him, she summoned a Flitter Herald, who fluttered away, distributing her Flit via the short message distribution system that some of the younger Heralds had come up with:

"Denariel says, Jimi Senior has wandered from the Garden of Companions again - all Heralds please take care, and keep your liver treat distractions handy - and notify me if you see him! Jimi Senior has wandered from the Garden of Companions again - all Heralds please take care, and keep your liver treat distractions handy - and notify me if you see him! Jimi Senior has wandered from the Garden of Companions again - all Heralds please take care, and keep your liver treat distractions handy - and notify me if you see him! Denariel says, Jimi Senior has wandered from the Garden of Companions again..."

* * *

Go Stewie! I bet he likes carrot-flavoured reviews. Feed him some and find out!


	2. Chapter 2

Fear not, Stewie tells me that this one is set quite some time into the future Earthside (linear time means so little to a Hellhound, wherever he is). Lemmy and Lars were grizzled veterans who went down fighting at an advanced age, like Jimi Jr before them. Another pup is probably Choosing the Winchesters as this happens, maybe one of the pups that RJ and his friends were playing with at the sleep-over in 'Escapees From The Plot Bunny Pen'. Don't be too sad: they were ageing, and they went out together, protecting their Hunters. You already know that for Hunters' dogs, it is the way of things, and they are content with that.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

It was hard to say why Jimi Senior, the Hellhound who had been inadvertently summoned to the Hunt by Dean Winchester and remodelled into a large, handsome Rottweiler had such itchy feet. After all, the Garden of Companions was expressly intended to be paradise for pets.

For the dogs, there were lakes to swim in (complete with dead stuff to roll in on the waterline), tyre swings to swing on, enormous baskets of toys that went squeak, honk or boi-oi-oi-oi-oing, treat balls of all shapes and sizes hanging from trees, ball throwers that never stopped, designated digging areas, sofas that were there to be jumped on, slept on, peed on or shredded. Some of the Heralds even took it in turns to drive cars and trucks around so that dogs could ride with their heads out the windows or over the sides to enjoy the breeze. They would even dress up as mailmen, and flutter around at ground level for the dogs to chase. (The theory about Jimi Senior's propensity to chase Heralds was that, in his short mortal life, he never had a chance to chase mailmen, and that left something unsatisfied deep down in his doggy soul.)

Gabriel was quite fond of They, maybe because they were so full of guileless doggy mischief (well, except for Lars: he turned out to be quite the schemer, to the point where Gabriel came to wonder if he'd actually split in half when Father had recalled him, and the dog was in fact his evil twin). Of course, being Gabriel, and most senior of God's Messengers, sometimes he liked to take the mailman thing one step further: he would put on his full battle armour, then wrap himself in bacon and run through the Garden, yelling "Come and get it!", then laugh like a loon as he rolled around rassling with They, as They clamouring to eat his trappings.

It could've been because Jimi had been born a Hellhound, freed of the usual constraints of time and space that other mortal creatures grew up with. It could've been because he'd had a short but eventful taste of life on the road, travelling with his Hunters. It you've moved from Hellside to Topside and taken physical form, obeying the limiting and restricting laws of terrestrial physics, then moving from one pantheon to another is a walk in the path by comparison.

Once he was Waiting, he often went back to visit Hell. He liked to visit Orgle, play with Phlegmgob the imp, and chew on Crowley's suits, then spend some quality romping time with his relatives amongst the Infernal Pack. He seemed to have a special fondness for Crowley's companion, his grand-pup Gedda the Teacup Hellpoodle, who was universally acknowledged amongst the demonic Hierarchy of Hell to be the second most terrifying hound in the Infernal Pack, exceeded in demon-shredding only by the Alpha dog, Chevrolet (another of Jimi Sr's grand-pups).

Jimi Senior was also regular visitor to Valhalla, where he liked to rassle with Odin's wolves, Geri and Freki, while the one-eyed old Allfather roared with laughter, and tossed him choice bones and morsels from the table. He also developed an unfortunate habit of chewing on the handle bindings of Mjolnir. Occasionally, he would steal the hammer, and be found trying to bury it in the Firmament, which would result in a message from Danael, and Danariel having to write a scroll of apology to Thor. Fortunately, the thunder god was a dog person and always laughed it off as funny; however, Denariel tried to make herself scarce if he came to fetch his hammer himself, because he had a habit of making what she supposed were intended as flattering remarks about her appearance, and slapping her bottom.

So when he went missing, there was a process in place to try to track him down: diplomatic communiqués were issued, a Messenger of the Host would head for one of his regular haunts, and Castiel would be informed so that he would be ready to enact a rapid diplomatic response to any incidents, such as approval of any expenditure required for dry cleaning.

For Jimi Senior, ex-Hellhound, Hunters' dog and one of Heaven's most relentlessly cheerful residents, going missing was not really terribly unusual.

But this particular incident was unusual in that the notification that something was wrong did not originate in Heaven.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Castiel, Sheriff of Heaven, was diligently revising a document destined for the Archives, taking care to make the alterations indicated by the Red Pen Of Fury, when the cell phone he kept with him started to play 'Short People' by Randy Newman (Sam had programmed it for him, and this time, he did understand the reference).

"Hello, Crowley," he began.

"She's gone!" yelped the panicked voice at the other end of the call, "She's gone! Castiel, Gedda is gone! And it's ALL YOUR FAULT!"

Castiel cocked his head in confusion. "Calm yourself, Crowley," he instructed, "And please be assured that, if your Hellpoodle has gone missing, I had nothing to do with it. Hell is a large dimension; are you certain that she has not just gone out to play somewhere? Gone to enjoy one of her favourite pastimes?"

"No she hasn't!" yapped Crowley irritably, "Orgle and I have looked everywhere! She's not in the Pit, snapping up tidbits from the racks, she's not snoozing in my bidet, she's not in the Throne Room tearing the trousers off senior demonic nobility, she's not splashing around in the Lake of Fire, she's not in the Pit of Perverted Predators – she loves to stand behind the little guillotine they use, and gobble up the bits they cut off..."

"Dogs are very much pack animals," Castiel reminded him, "Perhaps she has sought the company of her relatives within the Infernal Pack?"

"I'll tell you what the problem is, mate," Crowley shrilled, "One of her relatives has sought her out! It's that bloody Jimi again! I know it was him, because the arse has been torn out of two of my suits, and the miserable bugger has done wee in my shoes again..."

"If that is the case, you have nothing to fear," Castiel reassured the worried King of Hell, "She is completely safe in his company. He will allow not harm to come to her. Indeed, she is a dog capable of defending herself; was there not a rumour of her having put Duke Belaal, universally acknowledged as the demon keenest to depose you, to flight, by rending his garments and attacking his private parts?"

"She shouldn't have to defend herself!" Crowley shrieked, "She shouldn't be out running around who knows where, with that animal! What's he doing running around, anyway? Why is he not where he should be? It's irresponsible of you, Castiel! If you're going to keep animals, you should keep them where they are supposed to be! It's the custodian's responsibility to ensure that they don't escape! A dog's soul is for its owner's life, not just for Christmas!"

"Might I remind you," Castiel pointed out mildly, "That Jimi Senior was born Belisarius, Alpha of the Infernal Pack, before he left Hell to Hunt with the Winchesters. So, if we are to discuss the appropriate enclosure of dogs by their 'custodians', perhaps you might consider that.."

"Yes, yes," snapped Crowley, "The point is, the point _is_, Castiel, the point _is_ that Gedda is now missing, in the company of that, that, that turncoat, that traitor, that Rottweiler-shaped reprobate! This is a serious situation! And I demand that you do something about it! I demand to know where she is! I demand that you make arrangements for me to fetch her home at once! Oh, my poor little Gedda, it's time for her walkies..."

"You are correct, Crowley," Castiel decided, "The situation is indeed serious. Jimi Senior's propensity to go visiting is already known, but if he is in the company of another, Hellside full-blood Hellhound, this could provoke a diplomatic incident with another pantheon. I think it is prudent for you to fetch her back as soon as possible, and I shall make arrangements to have a Herald of appropriate seniority accompany you."

"Well, yes," Crowley subsided somewhat, mollified a little, "So you should. Send me one of your flapping brainless yes-men to make the appropriate introductions. And do the navigating. I got lost last time I travelled to another pantheon, and I haven't had a chance to ask Orgle to program the Diabolical Positioning System for me. I want the voice changed, too, I don't want Darth Vader telling me where to go."

"Very well," agreed Castiel, "I shall make arrangements directly."

He cut the call, and did what Dean Winchester would have referred to as put out a call over Radio Angel.

_Brother, are you there?_

The answer came back to him almost immediately.

_Yo, baby bro! 'Sup? You sick of flying the desk? Wanna blow this joint, get some candied popcorn, and watch inappropriate movies? Dean was wrong, you know, It's actually okay to watch it with another dude, provided you keep your hands in your own popcorn tub..._

Castiel suppressed a sigh.

_Gabriel, where are you?_

_Uh,_ even via celestial telepathic communication, God's Messenger sounded sheepish. _I'm with the Healers at the moment, but it's all gooooOOOOOer, cold hands! How does that even happen? You're a multi-dimensional waveform of therapeutic celestial intent, and you got cold hands? _ _What the fornicate?_

_There is an important task,_ Castiel relayed, _Requiring the seniority, authority and dignity of a senior Herald. But if you are injured..._

_I'm fine,_ Gabriel interrupted, _Just some singeing, and now possibly frostbite of the pinions, seriously, you need to wear gloves or something, I've snogged Jotun maidens who were warmer that this!. Be right with you, Castiel. As soon as the Ice Maiden here stops groping meeeeEEEEE..._

A few moments later, Gabriel stood before his little brother, grinning and flapping his six wings. He had some singed feathers, a cut above one eye, and the remains of a shiner. "So, Sheriff Castiel, what's the job that's so important it needs my awesomeness to deal with it?"

* * *

Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. Crowley and Gabriel travelling together are entirely capable of provoking a diplomatic incident all by themselves, I fear...

Stewie says that the reviews so far tasted very nice, and if you feed him some more, he will continue this tale. They also make the fickriter rite fics, although I prefer my reviews chocolate coated. But I'll take the carrot-flavoured ones. Or the celery flavoured ones. And I hate celery. I'd even take Brussels sprout flavoured ones. That's just what a sad, desperate and pathetic review addict I am...


	3. Chapter 3

Well, I've been having a quiet little sniffle about not getting the number of reviews I've been spoiled with in the past, but Stewie has come up with a solution: write more! Brutally simple, really.

And I know that some of The Denizens are fans of brassicas, and that's good, because they're very good for you (all them isothiocyanates), but I'm afraid that I just CANNOT deal with Brussels sprouts – it's a legacy of being raised on meat-and-three-veg, where the veg was always boiled mercilessly into submission until it was devoid of flavour, texture, and any nutritional value. That's what people forget when they start bitching about migration to Australia. If it wasn't for our migrants from all parts of the world, we'd all still be eating charred meat and boiled-to-death veg. There would be no pasta, no stir-fries, no delicious dips, no marvelous cheeses, no Turkish bread, no paella, no asado, no gyoza, no gyros, no galaktobouriko. I refuse to live in a world with no galaktobouriko! _Give me delicious Greek desserts, or give me death!_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Castiel looked his archangelic brother up and down. "What happened to you?" he asked.

"Oh, er, well," Gabriel sighed, and sat down on the corner of the desk – he picked up the yellow coffee mug that read 'It's Not Really Casual Friday If I Still Have To Wear Pants'. "You've been hanging around with that Winchester boy again, haven't you?" he grinned.

"Gabriel, do not change the subject in an attempt to avoid the question," Castiel intoned seriously.

"It's nothing," Gabriel said dismissively, furling his wings.

"That looked like charring," Castiel persisted. "Have you been dallying with Kali again?"

"Well, yeah," Gabriel waggled his eyebrows in a remarkably Deanesque fashion, "But not recently. I haven't had time to scratch myself, let alone go find somebody to play Destroyer Of The Universe with. I've been on the job, you know, working. Not like those other idle individuals who call themselves archangels…"

"Your older brothers are learning more about humanity in ways that are meaningful to them," Castiel reminded God's most senior Herald, "And challenging the prejudices that they hold. It is the express wish of our Father."

"Right, right," nodded Gabriel glumly, "So, Raphael is now managing a donkey rescue sanctuary, Michael is working as a police dog, and Lucifer was last seen sitting on a circus strong-man's lap and being fed beef ravioli and attempting to answer that pressing question that has vexed philosophers for centuries, namely, 'How much pasta can you fit into a Chihuahua in a single sitting?'. Challenging, that is."

"Gabriel, your wings are scorched," Castiel persisted, "How did that happen?"

"Look. Little bro," Gabriel put on his most winning smile, "What sort of a big brother would I be if I worried my baby bro about little things, when he has so much to worry about already? Heavy lies the head that wears the Sheriff's tiara, and all that…"

"Very well," Castiel agreed, "You need not tell me now. I shall find out for myself, through official channels. When I read your report. After you have written it. And submitted it to Senior Librarian Denariel for approval. And made the corrections. And re-submitted it." He gave Gabriel his best Angel Of The Lord Warrior Of Heaven Eye-Sex Stare Of Doom. "In triplicate."

"What?" squawked Gabriel, "I don't have to do a report! There's nothing to report! We don't need no stinkin' report!"

"In _triplicate_," Castiel repeated ominously.

Gabriel scowled. "Somebody seems to be forgetting that I'm an Archangel," he rumbled, his primary wings rising and unfurling threateningly, "One of Father's four firstborn. I got more bite per smite than everybody else, except the Three Stooges."

"You are indeed more powerful than me," nodded Castiel serenely, "And, should you decide to smite me, then as the most senior angel in Heaven, you would be the logical choice to take over as custodian of Heaven, until such time as Father makes clear His will." He picked up a large, heavy file. "I suggest that I go over the latest list of Incident Reports with you first, it will make your transition to administrative authority less painful, and I will be unable to offer such assistance posthumously. Also, you will need to fill out this," he handed over a sheaf of several pages, "A copy is required to be submitted to the Archives in the event of the death of an angel…"

Gabriel drooped all over as his bluff was called. "I don't get no respect," he muttered.

"Perhaps if you inform me directly, there will be no need to file a report," suggested Castiel.

"That's blackmail!" yapped Gabriel.

"That's compromise," countered Castiel. "Gabriel, what happened?"

Gabriel sighed again, put down the yellow mug, and waved a hand, calling forth his own mug of hot chocolate (it was red, with UNDERWEAR IS OVERRATED printed on it). "You know that job that Dad sent me on? The one to announce the impending virgin birth of His child unto the Froodians? The sentient arthropods on Planet Frood? 'Go and Enunciate unto them, My child,' He instructed me, 'As My appointed Messenger unto the Froodians, Gambril, one of My four Catalysts. Tell them that unto them shall be born the Great Reactor, Broodling of the Great Chemist, to bring unto them hope and joy and the promise of My love.' You know, the standard here-comes-the-kid spiel."

Castiel nodded. "You took a group of fledgling Heralds to Planet Frood for some practical experience," he recalled with a frown, "And our youngest brother, Crowliel, had his musical instrument shoved up his nose, necessitating a trip to the healers."

"That's the one," Gabriel grinned again. "Well, first of all, the Blessed Virgin Mother-To-Be turned out to be an emancipated atheist, and she didn't believe me – thought I was some sort of practical joke arranged by her friends. So, I go back there, half a revolution later, and manifest as Gambril, ready to tell the glorpherds about The Blessed Event, and when I get there, what do I find?"

"Traditionally, you would anticipate the glorpherds to be watching their flocks by night," replied Castiel.

"Well, that's exactly what I thought," humphed Gabriel, "So, I got there, all ready to do the 'Be not afraid' thing, and they were all sitting around, because glorps aren't terribly bright and don't actually need a lot of herding, besides which all the milking is done mechanically these days, so these clowns were sitting around reading magazines with titles like _Greetings!_ and _Persons_ and _All Right!_ ,so I manifested before them, and began with the 'Unto you a broodling is born, offspring of a virgin's ovipositor', and they were like, 'Yeah, we know', and these magazines had articles about a recently medically verified case of parthenogenesis, with classy titles like 'Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves'…"

"They are an intellectually and scientifically advanced race," Castiel reminded him.

"Don't I know it," griped Gabriel, "Anyway, so I told them, no, you clowns, this is the Broodling of the Great Chemist, hallelujah gloria in excelsis Deo, and they laughed at me, and set their watchfleebs on me."

"Did you not appear unto the three Wise Individuals?" asked Gabriel.

"Huh," humphed Gabriel, "They were only following the new star in the sky to make astronomical observations. 'Yes, we know', they said. One of gave me a copy of _Persons_. Then they told me I was blocking their sightings, and to get out of the way. And one of them shot me with the alignment laser on her telescope."

"Is that how you became singed?" enquired Castiel.

"Not exactly," Gabriel continued, "Although her colleague did hit me with a star atlas. So, I thought I'd go and hover over the laboratory where the kid had hatched – the Blessed Virgin was working late again – but on the way, I got hit by the rocket that was launching a satellite intended to deploy a probe to investigate the properties of the newly appeared star." He sighed. "I feel terribly sorry for the Child of God. The first raising of the dead, she'll probably get arrested for interfering with a corpse…"

"You have carried out your task to the best of your abilities, which is all I believe that Father requires of us," Castiel reassured his drooping big brother. "This new task, as I indicated, requires a Herald of suitably high rank."

He explained the problem.

"Shouldn't be too difficult," shrugged Gabriel, "He's probably just headed for Valhalla again, although if he's gone back to the Field Of Reeds, I can see that it could ruffle some feathers. Possibly those of Thoth or Horus, you know they're cat people over there…"

"There is a complicating factor," Castiel informed him, "He is believed to be accompanied by one of his descendants, one of the most feared beasts of Hell."

Gabriel's eyes shot up. "He's not having some grandfather-grandson bonding with the Alpha of the Infernal Pack?" he asked.

"Possibly worse," suggested Castiel, "He was last seen in company with Gedda the Hellpoodle, who is also missing."

Gabriel whistled. "Wow, I can see that this might need some tactful handling," he nodded. "So, what's the plan?"

"I have deemed it prudent to send a representative of The Adversay with you, in order to call Gedda back if necessary, and to present a respectfully representative front to the other pantheons," Castiel told him. "Therefore, I have made arrangements for a suitably senior ambassador for Hell to accompany and assist you."

Gabriel looked stricken. "Please tell me it's not Verael," he said in a small voice, "You know, she scared the crap out of me even before she sided with Lucifer, and I do not believe that working all this time as Hell's Senior Librarian has improved her temper."

"It is not Verael," Castiel assured him, "It is in fact someone you have already met. He will be arriving shortly."

Gabriel brightened. "Oh, hey, is it Orgle?" he asked cheerfully, "Or Orgliel, as we knew him when he was on secondment Up Here. He was great! He's wasted as a diabolical fiend, you know, what he doesn't know about inappropriate use of IT networks isn't worth knowing."

"No, it is not Orgle," Castiel smiled in remembrance of the short time that Orgliel, Foster Angel On Secondment Of The Lord, had spent in Heaven, "It is another for whom we may yet hold hope of redemption."

There was a shiver of harp music in the air, the celestial equivalent of the 'bong BONG bong' noise that sometimes announces the impending arrival of a train or an aeroplane. "Ah, he is here," Castiel noted, as a faint red glow began to form before them.

The pulsing red light shimmered, wavered, and finally coalesced into a well-dressed individual.

"Oh, Lucifer's bum, I hate celestial commuting – if we must do this, the least you could do would be to upgrade me to Business Class. I just hope you have some nice bran and prune muffins to hand…"

Crowley was still brushing himself off when he found himself on the receiving end of a six-winged glomp.

"Crowliel!" beamed Gabriel, "Hug me, brothaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

* * *

You can read about Gabriel being sent to Enunciate unto the emancipated atheist Blessed Virgin at the end of 'Pack Up Your Troubles', which also details the way in which the Archangels were sent to Earth, and ended up doing their terrestrial homework to learn more about humanity.

Crowley (and Orgle) spent time in Heaven during 'In A Flap', during which Crowley messed up his fieldwork assignment, and Orgle was a natural at flying lessons.

Meanwhile, Reviews are the Delicious Serving Of Galaktobouriko With Perfect Flaky Pastry And Custard That's Not Too Eggy And Syrup Flavoured With Rosewater And Cinnamon Served Up When You Are Being Battered By The Unpleasantly Solid Parsnip Of Real Life!


	4. Chapter 4

Oh yes, do ANYTHING with your vegetables except boil them... just about anything can be made edible with enough olive oil and feta.

Some of the Greek ladies at work think I might've been Greek in a previous life, on account of my taste for that country's marvelous cuisine, and the enthusiasm (if not the co-ordination) with which I dance the Kalamatiano. My home town, Melbourne, is the city with the largest Greek population in the world after Athens. Opa!

* * *

**Chapter Four**

"Get off me, you fully fledged idiot!" snapped Crowley, batting ineffectually at Gabriel. "And I am _not_ your brother!"

"Sorry, kiddo," Gabriel flashed one of his most infuriating grins, "You were an angel once, albeit just temporarily and due to a computer glitch, but your big brother Cas here holds out hope for your eventual permanent redemption. And don't forget, Dad works in mysterious, and occasionally hilarious, ways."

"Should that thoroughly unwelcome day ever dawn, I shall cast myself into the deepest Pit of Hell," sniffed the King of Hell disdainfully, "Or track down Samuel Colt's weapon to shoot myself, or, if I am not issued an angelic blade, I will beat out my own brains with my harp. Failing that, I shall find Dean Winchester, and threaten to make his baby brother cry – I'm sure I could then rely on him to find a way to annihilate me completely and finally."

"This is your fault, Castiel," intoned Gabriel sadly, "You just humiliated him so badly with the training wheels when he was a fledgling, he's never recovered, and now he wants to divorce us."

"You cannot seriously expect me to go searching for my dog with him!" Crowley accused Castiel.

"Oh, come on, Crowley, it'll be fun!" Gabriel enthused. "Like a road trip, big bro and little bro. Hey, we can be like the Winchesters! You're the rebellious little brother who wants to get away from the Father that's never there and do his own thing, and I'll be like the big brother who's all, hey, come on Crowwy, let's go, guardianing people, Enunciating things, the family business..."

"There must be somebody else," Crowley begged, "Somebody who is not clearly suffering from some sort of congenital brain disorder?"

"Gabriel is the most senior Herald in Creation," Castiel told the unhappy demon, "It is appropriate for him to undertake such a mission. He also has the most extensive experience of visiting other pantheons, and will be best qualified to deal with any... discontent that has arisen from the dogs' wanderings. Which, I'm sure he already knows, I think Father would wish carried out with dignity and gravity appropriate to the situation, in a responsible fashion." He gave Gabriel his best Responsible Adult stare.

"Well, duh," Gabriel rolled his eyes, "Of course I'll do it in a responsible fashion! 'Responsible' is my middle name!"

Castiel looked confused. "You cannot have a 'middle name'," he pointed out, "Since you have only a single name, and no surname or family name."

"He's a regular Rainman, isn't he?" humphed Crowley. "Can tell you what day it will be 30,576 days from now, but can't even make toast unassisted."

Castiel just looked more confused. "I don't understand that reference," he said, "I am an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven. There is no god of rain in my Father's Kingdom, although there are several who were venerated in the ancient Americas." He paused. "It will be a Thursday. And I know how to make toast. I have had extensive instruction from Dean Winchester in the process of burning stale bread. I have also been given tuition on the condiments to be used on toasted bread, and the appropriate application of such. For example, the butter must go on the toast first, then the spread. The knife should not be deployed such that leftover butter from application to the toast is deposited in the spread. Nor should the knife be left on the table, it should be placed on a plate or in the sink. The fruit-derived spread known as jelly may be applied thickly, as may peanut butter, but the yeast-based product known as Vegemite should be spread very thinly, unless one is a native of Australia who has grown up eating it; this information was provided to me by a werewolf who was born in that country, and she provided me with samples on toast by way of demonstration, and I found her instruction to be correct – spread as thickly as jelly, it made my vessel's face pucker up and it remained that way for half an hour. Moreover, according to her pair-bonded mate, toasting bread with a welding torch is quick and effective but considered uncouth..."

"Yeah, he's our own little Sheldon, only without the hand sanitizer and the kitty song," agreed Gabriel. "So, why don't we get this little shindig on the road?"

"The sooner you can begin your search, the better," Castiel nodded. "If Jimi has gone visiting, and is not in Hell, his next most likely destination would be Valhalla. He is fond of the other hounds. Denariel becomes quite cross about it, because she says that Odin spoils him, and venison bones do unfortunate things to his gastrointestinal processes."

"Oh, hey, speaking of family," Gabriel nudged Crowley, "They adopted me, you know, when all that angst was going down here."

"Oh, how wonderful," sniffed Crowley, "Another pantheon of hereditary imbeciles."

"Don't be like that!" Gabriel said, "Come on, it'll be fun! There's always feasting and quaffing going on in the Hall. And there's Valkyries." He did the eyebrow waggle thing again.

"I hate opera," muttered Crowley.

"How do you feel about epic poetry?" enquired the archangel solicitously.

"Perfectly comfortable," Crowley replied serenely, "So long as it takes place several light years from wherever I am."

"I can see that you may anticipate a most interesting cultural education," observed Castiel.

"You know, I'll bet that's just what the Spanish priests said to the Incas," Crowley suggested, "As they handed out the Bibles and the smallpox."

"Well, there's no time like the present," Gabriel stated, "So, we should go. Let me drive, okay?"

"I hate you both so much," moaned Crowley, as Gabriel raised a hand to snap his fingers.

"That is what little brothers are wont to say," smiled Castiel. "Enjoy your trip, Crowley."

"Enjoy this you priiiiiick!" Crowley flipped Castiel off just as Gabriel took wing, the insult trailing away as they vanished in a hexawinged flap.

"Assbutt," muttered Castiel fondly before returning to his work.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Snow," grumbled Crowley, "I might've guessed there would be snow."

There was snow. Lots of it. Blown into huge dramatic drifts, resting attractively on the boughs of trees, forming delicate patterns of ice on spiders' webs, all of it glinting in the moonlight in such an ethereally picturesque manner that Crowley thought he might just throw up.

"Well, of _course_ you have to have _snow_," Gabriel smiled, "If there's going to be a sauna, you have to have snow to roll in afterwards. Marvellously invigorating."

"That explains so much," griped Crowley, "First you cook your brain, then you freeze it."

Gabriel pointed behind them. "But for now, that's where we're headed," he indicated a large and majestic structure, built meticulously of stone and wood, "Valhalla."

As they neared the building, Gabriel led them past the enormous front doors, to a smaller side portal. "Sneaking in late?" asked Crowley snidely, "Will Daddy Odin be angry that you broke curfew?"

"Nope," Gabriel told him, opening the door, "But there's somebody I must see first, or I really will get an earful."

He led Crowley through a palatial interior, under ornate hammerbeam ceilings, to a large apartment that was sumptuously furnished. Amongst a group of women sat one wearing an ornate necklace, an attractive lady of indeterminate age and what might be referred to as a magnificent figure, working at a tapestry frame. As they entered, she looked up and smiled.

"Loki!" she held her arms out, and Gabriel scurried to her.

"Hello, Mutti," he greeted her, "How are you keeping?" He eyed the tapestry. "Oh, I like what you've done with the severed heads."

"It's a bolster, for your father," she explained, "He complains that his back gives him grief at this time of the year." She peered around him to Crowley. "And who is this?"

"This? This?" Gabriel made a sweeping gesture. "This, dearest Mutti, is Crowley, King of Hell, and Adversary of Yahweh!"

Crowley bowed politely. "Good evening, madam," he said, "I assure you, we will not take up your time, we shall transact our business, and... OOMF!"

"Crowley!" Freya seized him in a hug and crushed him to her ample bosom. "How lovely to meet you! I have always told Loki," she beamed indulgently at her foster son, "That he should feel free to bring friends home. Honestly, you'd think he was ashamed of us! And," she gave him a mock frown, "I am still waiting to meet your lady friend. Or are you frightened of the girl talk that she would do with the valkyries?"

"The thought of Kali galpalling around with Brunhilde and her posse is just too appalling to think about," stated Gabriel, sniffing. "Is that venison on the spit in the Hall I can smell?"

Freya sighed melodramatically. "Oh, you," she accused him, "You only ever come to see me when you want something to eat. Or you need laundry done. Speaking of which," she ran maternal eyes over his tunic and raised an eyebrow, "You are looking a little sooty, dear. So, have you been to see your paramour recently?"

"Muttiiiiiii," whined Gabriel, in the fashion of every boy who has ever been pressed for details about his girlfriend by his mother.

"We are here on business, madam," Crowley interrupted. "Two of our dogs have gone missing, a Hellhound-turned-Hunter's dog who was Waiting, and one of the most savage beasts of the Infernal Pack."

"Oh, would that be Jimi?" she clapped her hands, "He visits us quite often. A lovely animal. And just today, he had the most delightful little companion with him, such a dear little creature."

"That's Gedda!" Crowley yelped, "She's my Hellpoodle! Was she well? Did she look all right? The poor little thing must be pining for me terribly!"

"Well, she ate what appeared to be several times her own bodyweight in roast pork, and grabbed a few of Munin's tail feathers," relayed Freya, "And then fell asleep in Tyr's lap with her nose in his mead horn. She quite charmed everybody."

"We should get to the Hall, then," Gabriel kissed his adoptive mother, "And if they aren't there, we will have to be off after them straight away."

"Oh, that's just like you," she sighed, "You're as bad as your brothers. At least you don't join in so often with the chopping each other to pieces."

"Hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter," he grinned at her, "Unless we're talking about Kali, she likes to do both, sometimes."

Freya wagged a finger at him as Crowley let out a yelp of "Too! Much! Information!" that would've done Sam Winchester justice.

"Next stop, the Hall," Gabriel answered Crowley's question before he'd even asked it. "We've timed this well, it smells like the venison is just done. If we're lucky somebody will have tapped a new barrel just recently."

The Hall of Valhalla reminded Crowley very much of Lucifer's Throne Room; it seemed to be dimensionless, of enormous size, catering to the population to be housed rather than the other way around. However, it was also different in many ways.

The décor, for example. Whoever had decked the place out had gone for finished rustic, with wooden tables and benches, an intricately carved roof, decorative sconces holding torches that gave a clear, bright light, and rushes on the floor. An enormous firepit, with an equally enormous spit over it, was a central feature. Beside it, a huge barrel with a spigot sat on a rough-hewn trestle.

It was also a lot louder.

There were dogs lolling around or wrestling amongst the inhabitants, who all seemed to be in the process of eating, drinking, talking, fighting, or a permutation or combination of up to all four at once.

On a high-backed wooden chair overlooking the Hall sat an old bearded man, his one eye glittering as he leaned occasionally to murmur to one of the ravens perched on either side of him. Two wolves lounged contentedly at his feet, as he dropped them pieces from the joint of meat he held.

"Good grief," muttered Crowley, "I've seen kindergarten snack times that were more civilised than this."

"Come on," Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder, "I'll introduce you to my foster dad."

Before he could begin to steer them through the crowd, a huge voice bellowed, "Loki!"

Gabriel turned and his face broke into a smile. He threw his arms wide as the tall blonde bearded man grabbed him up, and bellowed back, "Hug me, brothaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

* * *

Gooooo Stewie! Reviews are the Delicious Chunks Of Venison Served At The Barbeque Of Life!*

*If you are not of a carnivorous nature, Reviews can be the Delicious Dolmades (stuffed vine leaves) On The Platter Of Life!


	5. Chapter 5

As Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers or Casual Droppers-In have no doubt by now already inferred from other stories, Christianity isn't the only belief system with which I am prepared to play fast and loose – this is the wonderful thing about writing in your own 'verse; you can write what you like. Presumably this means that when I die there will be a bit of a punch-up over who gets to send my soul to their version of Hell...

And since time is an illusion (lunchtime doubly so) and means little to those who are multidimensional wavelengths of celestial intent, and this must take place several years from Dean's fortieth birthday anyway as Lemmy and Lars have gone to Wait at an advanced age, we can't know what day it will be 30,576 days from story-now. We'll just have to take Castiel's word for it that it will be a Thursday. He should know, after all.

As for the concept of vegetables-as-dessert, perhaps I could start with pumpkin pie and see how I cope with that...

* * *

**Chapter Five**

"Good grief," muttered Crowley, as the blonde giant hugged Gabriel, "He's even bigger than Moose Winchester..."

"Crowley," Gabriel extracted himself from the crushing embrace, "This is my big bro, and all around asshole, Thor."

"Shut up, Midget-Man," grinned Thor, "Or I'll tell Mother you're here."

"Already been to see her," Gabriel shot back smugly.

"Ah, want your laundry done?" asked Thor. "You look grubbier than usual. Have you been visiting your lady friend again?" He waggled his eyebrows in a way that was decidedly unSamlike. "When do we get to meet 'Madam Hot Stuff', anyway?"

"I've told you, she doesn't like the cold," Gabriel whacked him in the arm. "No, I'm here with my friend Crowley on the trail of a couple of missing dogs."

"Good evening," Crowley inclined his head, "We are indeed searching for... GOOF!"

"Crowley!" Thor clapped him on the back, "Welcome to our father's Hall! You look like you could do with feeding," he added.

"And you look like you could do with washing," Crowley snapped back, rubbing his arm, "Or at least a haircut."

Thor bellowed with laughter. "Ah, it's never the size of the dog in the fight you must worry about, it's the size of the fight in the dog," he smiled broadly. "Come, a barrel is tapped, the joint is roasted, join us!"

"Unfortunately, we really are on a mission here," Gabriel said regretfully. "Jimi – you know Jimi? – has gone wandering. With an actual Hellhound as co-pilot this time. Is he here?"

Recognition dawned on the thunder god's face. "Oh, yes, he was here," he grinned ruefully, hefting his hammer from his belt and displaying the bindings. "See? More teethmarks in Mjolnir. He is a warrior's companion, that one."

"What about Gedda?" pressed Crowley anxiously, "What about my little darling?"

"The Helldog?" Thor grinned. "We thought she was a stray. There was almost an argument over her: Mother wanted her as a companion, and Father declared her a most engaging animal and claimed her as a playmate for Geri and Freki. Heimdall spent an hour on belly-rubbing duty, but eventually she fell asleep with her nose in Tyr's drinking horn..."

"Well, you can't have her, she's mine!" Crowley yelled. "Where is she?"

"Unfortunately, they have departed," Thor told them, "Jimi comes and goes."

"Well, we really do need to find them," Gabriel emphasised, "Do you have any idea where they were headed?"

Thor shrugged. "No idea, I'm afraid. But you could ask Father, he sees many things."

"I might do that," Gabriel nodded. "Back in a minute, Crowley."

"Hey, where are you going?" demanded Crowley as Thor took him by the shoulder, and steered him towards a bench.

"He'll just get the 'Where Have You Been Your Mother Has Been Worried Sick' lecture from Father," Thor confided, "You don't want to listen to that. Come, sit! Eat! Drink!" He pushed the demon down onto a seat. "This is Crowley," he announced to the table. A number of large, hairy, armour-clad men and women waved pieces of meat amiably by way of greeting. "He is Loki's boon companion, on a quest to find Jimi the Warrior's Hound and his pup the Helldog, and guide them safely home."

"I'd hardly say 'boon companion'," Crowley protested, as a serving maiden put a bread trencher with a large chunk of meat on it and a foaming tankard in front of him. "Er, can I get a napkin?"

"So, how do you know Loki?" asked an Aesir who introduced himself as Heimdall, "You don't have the usual appearance of one of Yahweh's Children."

"I should hope not!" Crowley snapped, "Is there anything resembling cutlery in this place?"

A woman in a winged helmet next to him stuck a knife into the table by his elbow, eliciting a little shriek from him. "A man who can put Thor back in his place can use one of mine," she purred.

"Er, thank you, madam," Crowley stuttered, "I'm not one those flying vermin. Quite the opposite. I am a demon. In fact, I am the King of Hell. Yahweh's Adversary," he added for good measure.

There was some impressed muttering. "I thought that was Lucifer," opined one warrior through a mouthful of meat.

"Lucifer is king of Hel, certainly," rumbled Tyr, and everyone laughed.

"So, you are Lucifer's heir, then?" smiled a woman who was wearing what Crowley thought must be the most uncomfortable foundation garment ever wrought, if Berlei had a specialised line in chain mail.

"Wasn't there supposed to be a Boy King?" asked Baldur, looking confused, "I'm sure Skuld the Norn said something about a Boy King. She talked about the hair a lot. There was mention of dimples. She's got a thing about dimples, you know."

"You keep order in your father's realm whilst he is... otherwise occupied?" asked Sigrun. The sniggers went around the table again.

"If by that you mean, did I pick up the pieces, bring order out of chaos, strive constantly to run the place and get nothing but derision, insults, attempted coups and the utter contempt of the ungrateful bastards who benefited from my efforts when that selfish, scheming, prideful arsehole threw a tantrum that provoked his Daddy to chuck him and his equally bone-headed holier-than-thou self-righteous stick-up-his arse older brother in a box and throw away the key, then yes," Crowley snapped. "And I would never call Lucifer my father. He hates humans, he hates demons, he hates paperwork, and when Daddy Dearest gave him a free kick, did he scurry back to Hell to pull those Hierarchy arseholes into line, oh, nooooo, he went off on a fact-finding mission to learn about humanity. And Italian food. Ha! Like he ever wanted to do anything with humanity except set it on fire. And I always, _always_ delivered the postcards, and the letters, shoved them under the door of the Cage as soon as they arrived, even the saucy ones from Hel, although we sometimes had to put them in a bucket of sand for a while until they stopped smouldering..."

The Aesir around the table nodded sadly. They were all familiar with the unhappy machinations that could comprise 'family matters' amongst deities and supernatural beings.

"It can be so hard, when your family quarrels," Sigrun put a comforting hand on his arm, leaving a greasy print which Crowley hoped would come out with dry cleaning. He took a large gulp from the tankard in front of him.

"So how did you become a demon, then?" interrupted another warrior, whom Crowley had privately labelled Mr Worf, "Surely making you a demon powerful enough to rule in his stead shows a mark of favour from Lucifer."

"It's got nothing to do with favour from Lucifer," Crowley sniffed dismissively, taking another drink of what turned out to be rather good beer, "I made a deal, traded my soul, became a demon, and rose to the top because I was the smartest, the most determined, the most ruthless and frankly the most rational one there. Honestly, there are days when the place makes me think of a Special Needs kindergarten with the heating turned up a bit."

"What sort of a deal did you make?" asked Baldur, "You offered your soul for a place as Prince of Hell?"

"Er, no," Crowley stammered, "You see, if a human wants something, you can make a deal with a crossroads demon, I was King of the Crossroads before I became King of Hell, and, and, you trade your soul for ten years of life, and whatever it is that you want..."

"Ah," Baldur nodded in understanding. "So, what did you want? Wealth? Power? Talent? Renown?"

"Women?" grinned Thor.

"Er, not exactly," Crowley gulped, then took another drink.

"Well, what, then?" asked Sigrun, chin propped on hand as she watched him.

"Well, it was nothing, really," Crowley smiled desperately, "This is rather a decent brew, I tell you, Yanks can't brew beer to save themselves, they really can't..."

The assemblage kept making guesses and pressing him to reveal the details of his deal. Crowley busied himself with his venison and his beer, until the whole table began to chant "Tell! Tell! Tell! Tell!"

"No, really, it was nothing," Crowley cringed.

"Tell! Tell! Tell! Tell!" Grinning diners banged tankards on the table.

"Honestly, you wouldn't find it the least bit interesting..."

"Tell! Tell! Tell! Tell!" They whooped and hooted, and began to pelt him with pieces of gristle and bread crusts.

"Aaaaaargh! Stop it! Stop it, you barbarians!" he wailed in futile protest, "This is bespoke! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get blood stains out of a wool-cashmere blend?"

"Tell! Tell! Tell! Tell!"

A particularly solid piece of pork crackling hit him on the ear.

So, his face as red as a tomato, he told them.

There was a moment of sudden silence.

Then the whole table erupted into howls of hilarity, pounding their fists on the table.

"Now, this is a man," Thor clapped him on the back, possibly breaking ribs, "This is a man who has his priorities straight!"

"What would be the point of asking for women, if you have nothing to offer them?" roared Heimdall in approval.

"And wealth cannot buy... prowess," Tyr yipped, barely able to speak for laughing so hard.

"It was... oh, bugger," sighed Crowley, as his appreciative audience began to chatter eagerly to the Hall's other occupants as to what the noise was all about. The ripples of laughter and applause spread outwards from the epicentre of embarrassment.

"He is indeed Loki's companion," grinned Baldur.

"What's all the racket about?" asked Gabriel, wandering up to the table, holding a piece of meat in one hand and a drink in the other.

"Smite me now," begged Crowley.

"King Crowley was telling us how he _rose_ to become Prince of Hell," Thor grinned, provoking more guffaws. "How he came to such _standing_."

"Don't ask," squeaked Crowley. "Can we go now?"

"Unfortunately, no," Gabriel replied, "Jimi and Gedda left some time ago. However, Odin will send Hugin and Munin, his ravens, to look for signs of their travels. They should be back at first light, then we can pick up their trail. So we'll stay the night here, and... what?" he interrupted himself, "Why the kicked doggie face? You seem to be a hit with the crowd here."

"I'm sure we can make you comfortable, King Crowley," Sigrun intoned in a voice loaded with innuendo.

"Bet he could make you uncomfortable," chuckled Heimdall, and the assembled company laughed again, with several individuals clapping Crowley on the shoulders.

"Then it is settled," Thor clapped his hands, "Loki will stay tonight, and his companion-in-arms, Crowley, Prince of Hell, will be our honoured, and most worthy, guest."

"Help me," moaned Crowley.

"Try the mead, Your Majesty," suggested Sigrun, "It will put joy in your heart."

"And fire in your dragon," sniggered Heimdall.

"And steel in your dagger," chuckled Baldur.

"And a she-wolf in your furs," chortled Thor.

"I'll settle for alcohol in my brain cells," muttered Crowley, grabbing the horn and downing it in a few gulps. "Oh, quite a kick to it, that stuff..." He held it out for a refill; Sigrun took the jug from a serving maiden, and smilingly obliged.

"Shove up, then," Gabriel plonked himself down on the bench, "Hey, Crowley, don't take any crap from this guy – let me tell you about the time the Frost Giants stole his hammer, and we dressed him up as Mom to go and get it back..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The next morning dawned bright and clear. The sun peeked over the horizon of Asgard, streaking the sky with shades of pink and crimson, and making the Bifrost dance and sparkle like a snaking aurora.

In a cosy chamber in Valhalla, a pile of furs moved slightly, and groaned.

Crowley stuck his head out from under the cover, and went "Brlgrmf."

It took several minutes for him to remember where he was. In fact, it took several minutes for him to remember who he was. Valhalla, he remembered, he had been introduced to Gabriel's adoptive Aesir family, who were all a bunch of carnivorous blonde Neanderthals, and there had been eating, and drinking, and... if he was honest, it was all a bit fuzzy after that...

Those bloody barbarians, he cursed to himself, some of them had obviously snuck up on him, kicked him repeatedly in the head, glued his eyes shut, and...

He sat up with a small shriek.

They'd apparently also stolen his trousers...

* * *

Stewie loves your not-boiled-until-they're-mushy reviews! (However, if you could avoid lacing them with methamphetamine I would be grateful, it's a bit annoying when I'd like to go to bed but he won't shut up).


	6. Chapter 6

Leahelisabeth wrote:

_We must make Crowey even more uncomfortable! :D_

Okay.

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Gabriel was sitting with his feet stretched out towards the fire when the dishevelled figure of the King of Hell, wrapped in a large fur pelt, staggered into the hall.

"Yo, Crowley!" he greeted the apparition, "The ravens aren't back yet, but they shouldn't be long..."

"What happened last night?" hissed Crowley.

"Same thing that happens just about any night here," Gabriel grinned, "It's the Eternal Reward for the honourable dead, so they feast, they drink, they fight, they sing, they flyt – you know, that's like an insult contest – and since we've had some more modern Odinists arrive here, they've all developed a bit of a thing about playing Guitar Hero..."

"No, no, no!" snapped Crowley, "What happened to me last night?"

Gabriel looked at him, confused. "Didn't you have a good time?" he asked. "You sure looked like you were having a good time. Especially when Sigrun schmoozed up to you and offered to 'make a deal'. Never seen someone who isn't Aesir drink that much mead before."

"What I want to know," Crowley muttered, "Is how many times your brother hit me in the head with his hammer, which is the only explanation for how I am currently feeling."

"He didn't!" Gabriel replied emphatically, "He wouldn't! That wouldn't be sporting. You beat him fair and square. The skalds will be writing a poem about that flyting as we speak. 'Baby-faced bone-headed girly-haired salmon-sucking herring-hugging son-of-a-one-eyed-randy-old-codger-with-bird-shit- on-his-shoulders wielder of a pathetically obvious phallic symbol that's not impressing anyone sissy-sissy la-la'! You totally owned him, little bro! I thought Odin was going to wet himself laughing!"

"I said that?" asked Crowley faintly. "To Thor?"

"Well, that was just the start, I can't remember the rest of it," Gabriel shrugged. "The skalds will, though, it's their job."

"Glarhg," rasped Crowley, "Is that water?" He picked up a jug, looked around for a cup, then drank directly from the vessel.

"Not surprised you're dry," noted Gabriel, "After all the singing."

Crowley choked. "Singing?" he spluttered.

"I never knew that Dicky-Di-Do song had that many verses," grinned Gabriel. "What a hoot! 'You'd need a coal miner to find her vagina'..."

"I did not sing that!" yelped Crowley.

"You totally did!" Gabriel assured him. "Twice, second time around so everybody could join in. And 'The Bastard King Of England'. All the verses. You're pretty good, did they make you sing in the choir when you were a kid?"

"Oh, I feel sick," moaned Crowley.

"Not completely surprised," Gabriel commented, "There's not many people can beat Heimdall at a pork sausage eating contest. And mop up the grease with bread afterwards, just to rub it in."

"I didn't," squeaked Crowley.

"You totally _did_," Gabriel confirmed again. "You were the life of the party, Crowley! Looks like you're even going native," he added, nodding at the fur that Crowley had wrapped around him, "On you, it looks good."

"No it does not!" Crowley snapped, "The only reason I am wearing a piece of dead animal like this is because somebody has stolen my trousers!"

"Oh. _Oh._" Gabriel leered knowingly. "Well, if I were you, I'd ask Sigrun. She was all over you like a rash, not that you complained much at the time."

"You're lying!" Crowley shrieked.

"No I'm not," shrugged Gabriel, "Ask anybody. I thought they'd cheer the house down when you finally threw her over one shoulder and sauntered out, that was impressive, she's a big girl, especially in armour..."

"Gneeeeeep," went Crowley, sinking to the floor. A dog that had been napping by the fire got up, yawned, stretched, and licked his nose companionably. "We have to get out of here!" he wailed, "I want my dignity back! I want my Gedda back! I want my trousers back!"

"Oh, now who's being a sissy-sissy la-la," snorted Gabriel, snapping his fingers then handing a pair of pants to Crowley. "You made some new friends, you had a great time, and you'll be welcome back anytime you're passing through."

"Which will be never again, thank you very much," muttered the hungover King of Hell, pulling on his trousers, "Oh, I smell like a stable, I don't suppose this place has anything approaching a bathroom?"

"There's always the sauna," Gabriel reminded him, "I'm sure that there will be any number of ladies willing to wield the birch twigs."

"You perverted pillock," griped Crowley, "Please tell me there's something for breakfast besides pork sausages. I think I could just about manage a boiled egg with toast soldiers."

He was asking a serving maiden for his breakfast, and trying to explain what tea was, when a man wearing a thoughtful expression but no armour wandered into the Hall, and brightened considerably at spotting Crowley.

"My Lord!" he called cheerfully, "Prince Crowley, might I have a word with you?"

"...Then, the boiling water goes in with the dried leaves, and... what?" Crowley looked around. "Who are you?"

"Forgive me," the man performed a ritualistic bow, "I am Olaf the Interminable, humble skald to the Hall of Valhalla."

"He's like a bard, an official poet," Gabriel supplied helpfully, "He documents events by composing poetry, and reciting them at gatherings. In a pantheon where there is no internet, he's kind of like a combination of Facebook and Memebase."

"Indeed," Olaf bowed again, "Although I know not of this book of faces, or the fortress of 'memes', of which Loki speaks."

"It's like the Guitar Hero thing," Gabriel told him.

Olaf's face lit up with recognition. "Ah! Now, _that_, I understand! I have in fact just finished a work describing Hralf's epic struggle against Siglinde." He cleared his throat, struck a dramatic pose, and began to recite.

_Brave Hralf, steadfast Hralf, beloved of the Hall for his prowess,_

_Stood before the console, and jacked in._

'_I am here to play music!' he declaimed._

'_I have overcome much – dreadful adolescent acne, an upbringing by decidedly weird parents, setting myself on fire._

_I have sacrificed much – beer, skateboards, and getting shitfaced on weekends._

_I have accomplished much – I have bested Creeping Death, I am Lord of the Battery, I have Jumped In The Fire._

_Who will challenge me? Who will strive against me? Who will play an E-flat diminished seventh without looking?_

_I am Hetfield, and I am here to play music!'_

_The gathering cheered, they cheered him wildly, and called for a challenger._

'_I will," called a voice from the darkness, 'I will.'_

_They stilled, and looked for the challenge, parting to let Siglinde, _

_Lovely, dangerous Siglinde,_

_To the console._

'_I am here to play music._

_Your trials are as nothing to me. I have bested my own,' she sneered,_

'_I care nothing for your problems,_

_I care nothing for your anger management issues,_

_I care nothing for your association, captured on film, with a strange man in a loud shirt,_

_And don't talk to me about getting shitfaced on weekends!'_

_She jacked in, and faced him squarely,_

'_I laugh at your diminished sevenths,_

_And I am here to play music._

_I will play you a Symphony of Destruction,_

_For I am Mustaine,_

_And I am here to hand you your ass on a plate...''_

"Does this finish anytime soon?" asked Crowley tartly, "Only, I have a meeting in a couple of months that I really don't want to miss."

"Oh, go on!" Gabriel sat, rapt, chin in hands, "I want to hear how it ends! Who won? Was there bloodshed? Did somebody kick somebody's dog? Were there disparaging interviews to the same magazine? Did they kiss and make up? Oh, Dad, it's going to drive me crazy not knowing what happened!"

"Alas, my lord, it is another work that brings me in search of the Ruler of Hell," Olaf apologised, "For it is incumbent upon a skald to be as accurate as possible in his compositions, allowing for a minimum of necessary artistic poetic licence..."

"So, you like to know exactly how much you exaggerate?" asked Crowley sourly.

"Yes, that's exactly right," Olaf beamed at Crowley's apparent understanding, "So, if I may press you for a few details, Prince Crowley..."

"I'm not a prince!" yapped Crowley, "I'm a self-made demon!"

"Hmmmm, yessss," muttered Olaf, "I can work with that. _Brave Crowley, fearless warrior, dauntless, courageous, defeated all-comers in his rise to the Throne. Red was his armour, and blood dripped from his sword as he slew his rivals left and right, and laughed at their death throes.._."

"I never slew anybody!" Crowley protested, "Mostly, I bored them into submission with meetings, Standard Operating Procedures and PowerPoint!" He paused. "Although I must admit, I did laugh at them when they fell asleep and drooled on themselves."

"It's just artistic licence, my lord," Olaf assured him, "Now, as to the amount you drank last night, I estimated perhaps half a barrel?"

"I have no idea!" Crowley told him, "I don't know, all right? I lost count after the first jug."

"Half a barrel it is, then," nodded Olaf, "Now, I have your flyting with Thor verbatim, but I'd be interested to know how you felt when he slunk from the Hall in shame. Elated? Victorious? Or disappointed to see the public humiliation of a valiant opponent, which is why you disentangled yourself from the embrace of the lovely Sigrun, and went after him, cheering him up, raising his spirits, praising his courage and wit and drinking with him, as you both swore eternal brotherhood to each other?"

"Actually, Thor laughed like a loon, and clapped Crowley on the shoulder," Gabriel pointed out.

"That would explain the bruises," humphed Crowley. "Besides which, I don't think he has a wit. Not unless it has a 'T' in front of it."

"I'll leave out the wit then, and have you praise his courage and persistence in the face of a greater foe," Olaf assured them. "Now, we come to the bit that everybody will really want to know about – how many rounds with the lovely Sigrun? Did you plough her womanfield with your mighty prowess as the horse crushes the turf beneath its hooves, drawing from her ecstatic ululations of the Valkyries' war cry, or was it a tender meeting of two souls, entwining in joy as the heat coils about the lithe form of the blade in the fiery furnace of your passion?"

Crowley gaped at him. "Do you often do this?" he demanded, "Go around, asking for details of people's private lives, so you can repeat them later?"

Olaf nodded cheerfully. "It's my job," he answered. "As I said, I want to be as accurate as possible."

"Why don't you go and ask Sigrun, then," snapped Crowley.

"Oh, I did," Olaf told him, "But, well, you know how women like to embellish these things, and, no insult intended, my lord, but, well, some of the things she said, they were a bit far-fetched, even for skalding verse. Saving your lordship's presence, I have difficulty in understanding how dangling from the torch sconce could enhance the proceedings..."

"Meeeeeep," went Crowley.

"Look, you know your job, you have enough to work with," Gabriel prompted, "There were plenty of people around who can fill in the details, why don't you just, you know, do what you think is appropriate, and I'm sure it'll be an epic."

Olaf seemed very happy with that. "Thank you, my lords," he bowed again, "I shall do that."

"Good man," beamed Gabriel, "Incidentally, I really like the 'fiery furnace of passion' thing. Very evocative."

Olaf beamed, leaving the Hall just as Crowley's breakfast was brought in.

"Surely I'd remember any dangling," he moaned mournfully, pushing a toast soldier into his egg, "No matter how much I'd had to drink, surely I'd remember any dangling." He brushed fruitlessly at his jacket.

Fortified by his boiled egg, Crowley eventually managed to summon enough demonic energy to remedy his dishevelled appearance somewhat, although he accepted with a resigned sigh that his jacket was probably permanently stained. As he was finishing, Odin swept into the Hall, his wolves at his sides and his ravens on his shoulders.

"So, what did the avian UAVs find?" asked Gabriel.

"Jimi and his companion have headed West," Odin told them, "Where they departed Asgard, and are gone beyond my sight."

"West?" Gabriel looked thoughtful. "Hmmmmm. I've got a hunch I know where they were headed. Finish your breakfast, Crowley, we got somewhere to be."

"Oh, thank Craig for that." The King of Hell poked a last toast soldier into his egg, and popped it into his mouth. "Let's get going before that rampaging Amazon returns, and demands further wall fitting gymnastics."

"Farewell, Loki," Odin said fondly, clasping Gabriel's arm, "And don't leave it so long to drop in again. It makes your mother so happy."

"I won't," Gabriel promised, ruffling Geri and Freki's ears.

"You will be welcome here anytime your fate brings you by," the Allfather told Crowley. "Pass on my regards to Yahweh, if you have a chance, and remind him that we're still on for Trivial Pursuit next century."

Crowley's eyes bugged. "You, er, you know, um, Himself?" he stammered.

"Oh, yes!" Odin's one eye twinkled with amusement, "He is an old friend! Zeus introduced us at one of Hera's little soirées. 'Odin', he said, 'I want you to meet my friend Yahweh. Don't be fooled by the beard and the stern countenance, he is, without doubt, the funniest deity in the cosmos'. I mean, have you ever seen a platypus? Or a star-nosed mole? Or those phallic cacti, I brought one home for Freya, once, I think she still has it on a window sill somewhere..."

"We'll pass on the message," Gabriel assured him, before Crowley could pass out. "Come on, boon companion, let's make tracks."

"I'm not your boon companion," complained Crowley, "I'm your unwilling co-traveller looking for our lost dogs. Oh, poor Gedda, I hope she's all right, too much pork can bring on her tummy troubles, you know, I don't let her eat too much, unless I have a demon I really dislike on litter tray duty."

Gabriel snapped his fingers, and took flight.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"What the fuck is this?" demanded Crowley, looking around him, "We haven't gone anywhere! There's just more bloody snow!"

"Oh, we've gone somewhere," Gabriel told him, "We're no longer in Midgard. This is the realm of Hel."

"No it bloody isn't," grumped His Infernal Majesty, "Because if it was, I'd have turned up the thermostat long ago."

"No, no, the realm of Hel. One 'L'. Hel's realm. Niflheim. The place of the dead who didn't die in battle." He pointed to a large Nordic dwelling.

"Well, it must be more civilised than Valhalla," humphed Crowley. "What makes you think they were here?"

"Because Jimi loves to rassle with... aha!" As Gabriel spoke, a gigantic grey hound came bounding towards them, tail wagging and ears flapping. "Hey, Garmr!" he greeted the dog, "Your pal Jimi been here, huh? Let's go ask your mom."

With another quick flap, he had them at the gate set before the large hall, and rang the bell that was set into the roofed gate.

The door of the dwelling opened, and a tall, stern-looking woman stepped out, peered at them, then smiled.

"Father!" she greeted him, stepping forward to kiss his cheek

"Father?" echoed Crowley.

"Yup!" grinned Gabriel, "This here is Hel, overlady of Niflheim. I hope we're not intruding..."

"You are most welcome," she assured them, "However, I am already... entertaining company."

As she spoke, another figure emerged from the door. "Who is it? Oh, Father, You must be joking..."

Gabriel let out a whoop of glee, and threw his arms wide, charging at Lucifer.

"Hug me, brothaaaaaaaaa!"

* * *

Reviews are the Interesting Recitations Recounting The Interesting Things That Happened During The Party Of Life While You Were Throwing Up Behind The Potted _Ficus_ Of Mundane Reality!

(PS. I looked up Potato Candy. Jeezuz suffering feck. It's even more startling than mashed sweet potato with marshmallows (have you ever noticed that how when sweet potatoes start to go pulpy, they smell like roses). Is there anything that Merkins won't mix with sugar?)


	7. Chapter 7

The word 'Merkin' (sometimes rendered 'Murkin') is an affectionate designation for our cousins Up There in the YouSay, more because that's often how the word sounds to us Down Here when you say it than anything else. "I'm a Merkin, and proud of it." The fact that it also describes a pubic wig is just a bonus giggle. (And be honest, when we say what our nationality is, how many of you have ever wondered 'What the hell is a Strine?')

It's a bit like televangelists on US TV as described by Billy Connolly; he thinks they claim to be healing people and thereby doing miracles, but what they actually shout is 'It's a murkle!' To borrow from one Mr Shaw, you lot Up There and us lot Down Here are indeed two peoples divided not just by an ocean, but by a common language...

Incidentally, if you ever visit Down Here, you may hear reference to Mexicans. That's Victorians; we're called Mexicans, because we're south of the border, which is largely a river. Which makes Tasmanians Cubans.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Lucifer let out a yelp of pained surprise, as Crowley let out a shriek of fright.

"Brother, you simply must stop behaving like a Cupid," sighed the Morningstar, "It is altogether disconcerting."

"Oh, come on," wheedled Gabriel, "I haven't seen you for a dog's age! Speaking of which," he went on, "Weren't you last seen impersonating a Chihuahua, and learning the fine art of hugging?"

"Luciano the Chihuahua lived to a ripe old age with The Amazing Alfonso and his Nonna," Lucifer informed him, smiling a little, "Passing away gently in his sleep in Alfonso's lap one evening, fat and happy and having enjoyed some particularly yummy veal cannelloni. As a rule, I was a huggee, rather than a hugger. And you, little brother, are not offering delicious morsels of Mediterranean cuisine, or delightful belly rubs."

Crowley let out another little shriek.

"Your very charming daughter, however," Lucifer grinned at Hel, who gave him an amused smile in return as he put an arm around her shoulders, "Is most capable of catering to one's every appetite, with gusto and imagination..."

Crowley let out a louder shriek.

"Why are you here, Gabriel?" Lucifer sighed again, peering in the direction of Crowley. "Is that... is that a demon with you?" he asked, bemused, "Is that... is that Crowley?"

"Meeeeeep," went Crowley.

"What are you doing travelling about with him?" asked Lucifer, utterly confused. "Since when do you keep pets?"

"We're here to see a man about a dog," Gabriel replied, "Or, more specifically, to see a woman about two dogs."

"It is cold out here," Hel cut in, "Father, why do you not come inside?"

"Good thinking," grinned Gabriel, "If you still make that flourless torte that you used to send to Luci here in the Cage, I'd love a piece!"

The inside of the dwelling was large, spacious, and well-appointed, as might befit the ruler of any realm of the dead. Garmr came prancing in, woofed greetings, and shook himself vigorously before trotting up to Crowley to kiss him on the nose.

"Yeurgh! Aaargh!" Crowley attempted to bat away the dog's amorous attention, then brushed at his suit in a futile effort to rid it of splattered melting snow and some doggy slobber. "Oh, I think I'll have to write this jacket off at the very least, and I fear for my tie..."

"It is always a pleasure to have you call, Father," Hel seated herself on a fur-strewn couch, smiling again as Gabriel cooed with pleasure and headed straight for the chocolate torte on the main table. Lucifer lounged on another couch, and Crowley took an uncomfortable seat as far from The Fallen One as he could manage. "But what is this about a dog?"

"It's Jimi," Gabriel told her, "Jimi, the ex-Hellhound, the Hunter's dog. He's gone a-roving again, with a companion this time, and we must find them, before they cause A Scene somewhere."

"Oh, yes, Jimi!" Hel smiled, the expression lighting up her otherwise not terribly feminine face in a way reminiscent of Ronnie Shepherd, "He was here, with a most charming companion! I thought her a wayward wanderer that he'd joined with in his travels..."

"That's my Gedda!" Crowley burst out, "And we must find her! This bloody snow, she must be so cold, and so frightened, my poor little darling."

"She seemed well and happy," Hel reassured him, "She enjoyed playing chase with Garmr – he was quite taken with her, even allowed her to sleep on his rug before the fire – and chased down some hares. She seemed quite fond of roast pork," at that Crowley let out a little whine, "And altogether a delightful creature. I would offer her a home here, should she want it."

"Well, she doesn't!" Crowley almost stamped his foot, "Where is she? Don't tell me you've been feeding her chocolate torte, I've seen those things, remember, I'm the one who shoved the layers under the door on pieces of cling wrap – only an archangel could ingest that much chocolate and cream and not die from cholesterol poisoning, I dread to think what it would do to my poor little doggie. Chocolate is poisonous to dogs, you know," he added reproachfully.

"Don't be ridiculous," Gabriel turned back, a large piece of torte in one hand and chocolate smeared on his face, "She's a Hellhound. They eat just about anything, including the most corrupted souls available. The odd molecule of theobromine or caffeine isn't going to do any damage to a digestion that can handle a merchant banker without even burping." He took another bite. "Mmmmmm, I must send you some Belgian chocolate, you could do a seriously sinful ganache with that. So, are they still here?"

"No," his daughter replied regretfully, "Unfortunately, they departed, some time after Lucifer arrived."

"I nearly fell over with surprise," Lucifer commented, "Think of it, brother – there I was, recently departed from my Earthly incarnation of Luciano, here to visit the extremely fascinating Hel," they exchanged A Look again, "And when Garmr comes out to meet me, as he likes to do, who else comes with him but old Belisarius, Alpha dog of the Infernal Pack! Only, he's not Belisarius anymore. He's not even fully a Hellhound anymore. He's a Hunter's dog, his name is Jimi, and he's been Waiting, of all things!"

"Well, when did they leave?" pressed Crowley.

"I cannot say, exactly," Hel replied, giving Lucifer another smouldering gaze, "After my Prince of Darkness came calling, I was... otherwise occupied."

"Aaaaaaaargh!" yodelled Crowley, with an expression that came astonishingly close to being a Patented Sam Winchester Bitchface™. "And you're okay with this... _arrangement_ here?" he yelped at Gabriel.

"Oh, yeah," Gabriel grinned, waving his rapidly vanishing slice of torte, "Hel's a really good cook."

"That's not what I mean!" Crowley tried to keep the shrillness out of his voice. "This is your brother! This is your daughter! And they're playing Happy Families For Grown-Ups!" He pointed out a window. "Those mountains out there are not the Appalachians! Nor are we in the Hapsburg court of the 16th century! Or the Roman Empire! Or Tasmania! If we were, the whole Who's Your Uncle thing might be understandable, if still completely creepy, but..." he shuddered.

"Isn't that just like a human," sneered Lucifer, "The sheer arrogance of them, thinking that because something disgusts their own delicate and frequently hypocritical sensibilities, it must be a universal taboo for all right-thinking entities everywhere." He shook his head. "And Father and Michael had the gall to accuse me of overweening pride."

"Lucifer," Gabriel rumbled, half warning, half plea to play nice, "There's a sound evolutionary reason for humans, like most mortal creatures, to have an instinctual abhorrence of inbreeding – the corresponding social taboo is its manifestation in a sentient species."

"Please," Hel interjected, putting into that one word all the pleading for civility that any girl has made when seeing an argument brewing between her father and her boyfriend, "It is the way humans think," she turned to Crowley, smiling, "And he was once a human. The concept of 'related' is very different for us. And none of us can help the way we come into being. Take my friend Athena, sprung from her father's head, and Aphrodite, well, how she can even bear to look upon the male member is a wonder..."

"Very true," nodded Gabriel. "It's a shame we didn't have time to introduce you to my other kids, Hel's brothers, Fenrir the wolf and Jormungand the serpent, and Sleipnir, of course, Dad's horse. Fen's not nearly as savage as everyone makes him out to be, you know – he only bit Tyr because they put a pink rhinestone collar on him once, and he doesn't like Odin because the old guy usually smells like Mom's cats – but it's not a bad thing if the neighbours think the watchdog's a bit of a brawler."

Crowley's eyes bugged. "You fathered a wolf? And a snake? And a _horse_?"

"Well, I didn't actually father Sleipnir," Gabriel explained, "I was disguised as a mare at the time, so actually, I mothered him. Wow, was_ that _a night I won't forget in a hurry. He's got eight legs, you know. Lamaze didn't help a lot with that. And before you ask, it has nothing to do with Tasmania, his father was a horse with absolutely no connection to the family."

"Be at peace," Hel instructed Crowley as he let out another bemuse squeak, "I will fetch you a drink. And some cake."

"I don't suppose you have any tea?" he asked wistfully.

"I would prefer not to have disturbance amongst family beneath my roof," the lady of Niflheim went on firmly, "Father, Lucifer, your differences of opinion on certain topics are well known, and will not be reconciled here. Come, cousin Crowley," she smiled, putting a piece of the torte and a mug of mead at Crowley's elbow, "Try the torte. Here's a piece with a strawberry on it."

* * *

What did she just call him? O_o Stewie is a strange little bunny, isn't he? And he's got the next chapter just about ready to go, just needs a leetle bit more prodding...

In the Jimiverse, we found out all about the heritage of the Hellhounds in 'In Dog We Trust', including Jimi Senior's pedigree and position, and Gedda's parentage, and the necessity for a Dominican/a (Lord or Lady of the Hounds) to keep them in line and working. (We also found out just how appalling Andrew' Jaeger's Latin is, although I can attest that, as someone else who didn't try to learn any until I was in my forties, it's bloody hard.) 'Pack Up Your Troubles' set up how Luciano the Chihuahua (aka Lucifer) came to live out his doggy life with circus strong-man The Amazing Alfonso and his grandmother, who ruled her grandson with an iron will wrapped up in modest black dress.

And of course Aphrodite arose from the foam that collected around the severed and discarded genitals of Uranus, after he was castrated by his son Kronos at the instigation of his consort Gaia. And people think that Yahweh's Children have family issues.

Meanwhile, Reviews are the Delicious Almond Meal Tortes Served Unexpectedly During The Awkward Family Occasions Of Life! (I always thought that my extended clan gatherings would've been a lot more tolerable if I'd sprinkled the potato salad with Rohypnol. Or cyanide.)


	8. Chapter 8

We don't know what Lucifer will do next. What we do know is that he has absolutely no interest in going back to being Administrator of Hell, because once you've been away from a toxic workplace, it's very difficult to motivate yourself to go back there.

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

"_Cousin?"_ chorused Gabriel, Lucifer and Crowley in shock.

"Of course," Hel replied, apparently confused by their confusion, "Lucifer, you are the brother of my father, and Crowley is a demon, wrought by you from his human soul. Which makes us, at the very least, cousins."

"It most certainly does not!" protested Lucifer stridently. "He is in no way my, my, my _offspring_!"

"Where do demons come from, then?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

Lucifer's mouth opened and shut a couple of times. "Well," he rallied magnificently, "They are humans who, damned by their sinful conduct or a crossroads deal, are sent to Hell upon their deaths."

"And what happens there?" she asked.

"Ah, well," he went on, on firmer ground, "The souls of the wicked or dealmakers are tormented until they are broken, and reborn as demons."

"Reborn?" she repeated.

"It's a figure of speech!" Lucifer insisted.

"But how does it happen?" she pressed, "How does a human soul go from tortured sinner to demon?"

"Well," Lucifer tried again, "They are, er, transformed, by, by the corrupting power of Hell. Yes, they are transformed into demons by the power of Hell!"

"And where exactly does the power of Hell come from bro?" asked Gabriel, grinning widely.

"Well, from me, of course!" Lucifer puffed up with pride. "I am the true Lord of Hell, the Ruler of Dis, His Infernal Majesty."

"Right, right," nodded Gabriel, "And since you were the original Fallen One, it would've been you who created the first demons yourself."

"I needed minions!" Lucifer defended himself, "When I first arrived, the place was barely functional! The pilot lights were out on all the furnaces – they were the old fire-and-brimstone models back then, none of these fancy Red Energy things you have now – the place was infested with imps, the Lake of Fire was half covered with an algal bloom and for some unknown reason was full of debris that I later learned were things called 'shopping carts', Verael had to use a packing case as her first desk, and didn't she let me know how unhappy she was about _that_, and we actually had descending damp in the Throne Room. And then, Father announced that he wanted me to deal with the eternal confinement of the wicked, but there weren't any Hellhounds back then, and the hot and cold running souls hadn't even been connected..."

"What an episode of _Rescue Renovation_ that would've made," mused Gabriel.

"And so you created demons," Hel continued, "Who, like yourself, must take a physical form in order to manifest materially. 'In your own image', as it were."

"I'm sure the whole 'Look I Can Make 'Em Too' had nothing to do with thumbing your nose at Dad, right?" Gabriel nodded judiciously, not even trying to hide his grin.

"Demons are not my 'children'!" howled Lucifer, "If they were, I would poison their milk!"

"He's not my real father!" yelled Crowley, "And if he was, I'd drink it!"

"Be silent, Crowley!" Lucifer snapped at the demon.

"Or what?" Crowley's anger was enough to overcome his fear. "Are you the only one who's allowed to yell in here? Why is that, pray?"

"Do as I say, not as I do!" Lucifer growled.

"Or what?" repeated Crowley. "I'm supposed to be scared of you, just because you can smite me? Get in line, you arrogant arsehole! Since I've been doing _your _job, running _your _business, while you dealt with the consequences of _your_ stupid feud with your brother, and then lolled about stuffing _your_ face with pasta, I've got a line as long as Lindsay Lohan's citation record queued up to turn me into a sulphurous little smear for my efforts!"

"You owe me respect!" hissed Lucifer.

"I owe you nothing!" Crowley shot back. "In fact, you owe _me_, for a number of dry cleaning bills, and a lot of carpet stain remover!"

"You will obey me!" Lucifer demanded.

"Why should I?" sneered Crowley rudely.

"Because I am your... uh... Overlord!" Lucifer settled on.

"You're not the boss of me!" shrieked Crowley.

He was on the point of flinging the remains of his cake at Lucifer when they both became aware of a suppressed chuckle. They turned.

Gabriel had a cell phone out, and was filming.

"Oh, Dad, that's hilarious!" he chortled, "Do you know who you two sound like? Lucifer, you sound just like Dad, and Crowley, you sound just like..."

"Don't say it!" Crowley growled, "Don't say it, or I'll pull out your feathers!"

"And I shall sit on you while he does it," added Lucifer sourly.

Hel demanded peace again, calming the waters somewhat with more mead, and more chocolate torte. "I do not know where Jimi has gone," she informed them, "But, with Father's help, I can scry my realm, and find out which way they went."

"Oh, that would be a big help, sweetheart," Gabriel smiled. "You wanna use the lake?"

Hel nodded. "I will need a large mirror for such a search," she confirmed, "The ice is black, and clear, and will serve well."

"Well, then," Gabriel stood, with another infuriating grin, "We'll just go check the GPS, won't be long, there's plenty of cake left, and I know you two have so much to talk about..."

"Don't leave me here with him!" squawked Crowley, but Gabriel and Hell were gone.

An awkward silence descended.

Lucifer broke it eventually. "So," he began hesitantly, "You've been running Hell."

"Yes, er, yes," replied Crowley, staring hard at his piece of torte.

Awkward silence.

"So, how is it?" asked Lucifer.

"Oh, fine, fine," Crowley replied. Then, because something else seemed to be expected, "The, er, new furnaces came online last century. Redundancy back-up."

"Really? Well well well," said Lucifer. "The things they can do now."

"Er, yes," agreed Crowley.

They both stared at the fire.

"Hierarchy giving you trouble?"

"Just the usual. Duke Belaal wants to tear my head off and shit down my neck and depose me, Duke Ganthery wants to tear my head off and shit down my neck then eat my brains with a spoon, Dame Ghazoria wants to tear my head off and shit down my neck just on general principles. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Oh. That's... good."

The fire crackled.

"So, how was the, er, sabbatical? As a Chihuahua?"

"Oh, fine, fine." A pause. "Nonna Martello was a particularly good cook. And Alfonso was certainly a very attentive dog person." He fidgeted a little. "They were... all right. For humans."

A knot in a log exploded.

"So, you are looking for your dog. She's with Belisarius. Jimi."

"Yes, yes. Her name is Gedda. She's most feared amongst demons."

"Oh, that's good, yes, that's good." Lucifer paused. "I was most surprised to see that he had left the Infernal Pack. He was the best Alpha we'd had in a very long time. You shouldn't have let him go."

"I didn't let him go!" Crowley declared hotly. "Dean bloody Winchester summoned him away!"

"Michael's vessel? You let Michael's vessel take the best of your Hellhounds?"

"I told you, I didn't _let_ him, the mutt went by himself!"

"What were you doing letting him wander around? Why was he not summoned back?"

"I didn't _know_ he was missing! And he wouldn't obey me anyway! None of them would when they started leaving!"

"They _what_?"

"How was I supposed to know the wretched things were heading Topside and putting themselves up for adoption? I wouldn't have found out at all, if I hadn't put proper administrative and accountability procedures in place, you left the whole system in a bloody shambles, you did..."

A pained sigh, a pinching of the bridge of the nose. "Why did you not appoint a Dominican, a Handler of the Hellhounds?"

"I tried that," Crowley muttered glumly, "Turns out, the perfect candidate is a werewolf with the bad manners to be still alive, is permanently crippled by a conscience and a sense of right and wrong, and worst of all, she's pair-bonded to a congenital idiot who speaks Latin like a complete barbarian." He glared resentfully at Lucifer. "I got it sorted, all right? Pardon me for not doing it exactly as perfectly as you would've, but, oh, gosh, guess what, you weren't there, and I'm just the poor sap who was shovelling the shit while you stuffed your face, or your brother's daughter..."

With a visible effort, Lucifer squelched what he had been about to say. "This cake is very good," he said instead.

"Er, yes, yes," agreed Crowley, "Very good indeed."

"Very chocolatey."

"Yes, very."

"Very rich."

"Yes. Good temptation material."

"Yes, yes indeed."

"I, er, I like what she's done with the strawberries."

"Oh, yes, yes, they are artistically prepared, are they not?"

"Your... lady friend is a talented baker."

"Yes." There was another moment of awkward silence. "Er, the ones you put under the door..."

"What?"

"The cakes," Lucifer clarified, "The tortes that you put under the door. When I was in the Cage. Hel sent them, you put the layers on cling film, and slid them under the door."

"Oh, yes, well," Crowley stared at his shoes. "It seemed... the thing to do. We did push a spatula under there as well. To help you put them back together. Flourless cakes can be a bit brittle sometimes. Difficult to handle. Um."

"Yes, it worked quite well." Pause. "I am... grateful for your efforts. With the cakes. They were a morale-booster. And also a way to alleviate boredom; trying to tempt Michael into Gluttony was a most amusing pastime."

"Oh, er, right." Pause. "You're, um, welcome."

"The letters, too," Lucifer went on. "They were always welcome. Especially the ones from Hel. Reading them to Michael never failed to provoke an entertaining reaction."

"Some of them did scorch the door on the way under," Crowley told him. "We had to repaint it a number of times."

"Oh. I didn't know that. I am..." Lucifer paused, as if tasting something a little bit unpleasant, "... Sorry."

"That's... all right." Crowley gazed fixedly at his plate. "It was fun watching the Hierarchy complain about the colour."

"Really?" Lucifer frowned. "I rather liked it. What was it?"

"Er, the chart called it 'Avenging Avocado'. The time before that it was 'Camel Topaz', and they didn't like that. And Dame Ghazoria was not amused by 'Yellow Snow'..."

"Nothing short of the skulls of all of us under her boots and the Red Throne under her considerable ass would amuse that cow," muttered Lucifer. "Do not turn your back on her, Crowley. Metaphorically or actually. When she appears to be at her most reasonable, she is at her most dangerous..."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Gabriel and Hel peeked in through the snow-dusted window, and smiled at each other.

"You are a sneaky, sneaky, clever girl," he whispered proudly.

"I am your daughter," she whispered back.

They made a noisy show of tramping back to the door, banging the snow off their feet before coming back in.

"Jimi and Gedda are headed South-East," announced Gabriel, "Which can only mean one thing."

"That I'm going to need more bran muffins?" suggested Crowley mournfully.

"And we must be on our way," confirmed Gabriel. "Thank you for the help, Hel," he hugged his daughter, "And of course, your marvellous catering."

"You are always welcome here, Father," she replied, then turned to Crowley and added, "As are you, Crowley. Family is always welcome here."

Um. Yes." Crowley stuttered. Lucifer cleared his throat pointedly. "Thank you."

_ha-hem_

"And thank you for the cake."

_ha-hem_

"And the drink."

_ha__**-hem**_

"ThankyouAuntieHel," Crowley squeaked, staring at the floor.

"Goodbye, brother," said Lucifer, "Crowley," he added with a curt nod.

"Bye," Crowley's voice was almost too quiet to hear as Gabriel laughed out loud, and took flight.

* * *

Ah, those awkward parent-child conversations where you have to find topics that you can discuss without getting into an argument. Avoid politics, sport, music, motorcycles and religion. Cake is usually safe. Unless one of you is gluten/egg/dairy intolerant.

He's a little energizer bunny is our Stewie. Must be all them carrot-flavoured reviews. Or review-flavoured carrots. Keep 'em coming, Denizens, we loves it, yesssss, we do, we lovessssses our reviewsesssss, they is precioussssss.


	9. Chapter 9

Well, Real Life has been No Fun At All for the last week, but I know you're all waiting for the big reunion scene, so let's get the scene set...

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

"Finally, somewhere without snow," humphed Crowley, looking around. "Mountains are a lot nicer when they're a long way away. So, where are we?" He looked around. "This better not be too tropical, I like the trees, yes, but the whole mosquito-infested swamp thing, you can keep it, National Geographic photo essays be damned…"

"Not sure, exactly," Gabriel shrugged, "This place changes, depending on whether my homie Vish is feeling creative or destructive, but… aha!" he spotted a rotund figure reclining under a banyan tree. "We can ask him. Hey, Gaddy! 'Sup?"

The figure sat up, and laughed a great, rolling belly laugh, which was a most impressive sight, since he had a great rolling belly. "Loki, my friend!" he waved them over with his fan, "Or are you here as Yahweh's messenger avatar?"

"Oh," Gabriel smiled sheepishly, "You heard about that, huh?"

"Dear boy, everybody has heard about that!" the fat smiling man told them. "Kali was beside herself – poor Vishnu worked himself to the bone restoring balance after her little hissy fits – and of course, Ganesh never could resist a bit of gossip, and you know what a long memory he has for anything juicy."

"Glad he made it back okay," Gabriel grinned, "So, Gautama, this is my boon companion…"

"I'm not!" griped Crowley.

"…Crowley, King of Hell, Adversary of Yahweh, my sometime little brother, and now my acknowledged nephew."

"Whoo-hoo, and I thought those Greeks had interesting family trees!" Guatama laughed heartily again, "Welcome, King Crowley! Though I am only a visitor here myself. I like the climate. And the food! Nobody prepares jalebis like Lakshmi. But," his grin actually widened, "I suspect that it is not the Knowledgeable One that you are here to visit?"

"We're actually looking for a couple of dogs," explained Gabriel, "One was Waiting, and one is a Hellhound, and they've kind of gone AWOL."

"Ah, you mean Jimi!" Gautama brandished his fan in recognition, "I have met him! A soul of very good karma. A very happy soul. Although he did chase the sacred cows. Prithu was not amused, so we played fetch with my fan." He held it out to display the teethmarks. "I thought his companion was the most wonderful creature. Very friendly, she was."

"That's my Gedda!" yelped Crowley. "Is she all right? Oh, I'll strangle that animal for dragging her all over the cosmos! She must be so hungry, it's way past time for her din-dins…"

"She shared my curry, and was a most polite and gracious dinner guest," Gautama told them, "We ate, then we meditated. Well, I meditated, while she had a snooze in my lap – have you ever noticed how soothing the carefree company of an animal can be?"

"Curry?" Crowley's eyes bugged. "You fed her curry?"

"She fed herself curry," Gautama told them. "She seemed to like it a lot."

"Oh, yes, she does," Crowley nodded, "The trouble is, curry doesn't like her."

"She's a Hellhound, Gaddy," Gabriel informed his friend, "If you see her again, maybe stick to something like dahl."

"It wasn't a vindaloo, was it?" asked Crowley anxiously, "The last time she got into one of those, I lost a suit and two pairs of shoes…"

"Attachments to transient things is at the root of _dukkha_, suffering," Gautama told Crowley in a compassionate voice.

"That suit wouldn't have been a transient thing if Bobby hadn't fed her curry!" yapped Crowley.

"Well, they headed that way," the fat man pointed with his fan, "Which is convenient, is it not, my strangely reincarnated friend?"

"Ah, well, I'm not sure if convenient is the right word," Gabriel began.

"She looked for you, you know," Gautama informed him. "Rallied her friends, borrowed Isis' spell, the one she used to bring Osiris back to life, asked Artemis to do the tracking, even put Cerberus on your trail, and went charging into the Underworld to look for you, scimitar flying, tearing off heads, adding skulls to her girdle, crushing the unwary beneath her feet as she danced…"

"Did she?" marveled Gabriel, looking impressed, "Really? I had no idea she was such a romantic."

"Weren't you ever told 'She is the cat's mother'?" snapped Crowley. "Who is 'she'?"

"Oh, er, my lady acquaintance," Gabriel replied a little bit sheepishly.

"Also known as Kali Ma, The Dark Mother, The Dancing Lady of Death, Destroyer And Redeemer of the Universe, or," Gautama added, "To a particular friend, Madam Hot Stuff."

"Kali and I have a, well, a thing," sighed Gabriel. "Of course, she knew me as Loki. I think she had a bit of a taste for bad boys; the wild Nordic Trickster, yes, the harp-plucking goody-two-shoes in a dress, not so much…"

"You… you posed as an Aesir to get into Kali's sari?" Crowley's eyes bugged in horror.

"Well, they'd kind of already kind of adopted me, kind of," Gabriel explained, "And I was just visiting Gaddy here once, and I saw her dance – she can really dance, seriously, Salome had nothing on this chick – and I knew right then, that is a lady I'd like to get to know better. I mean, have you ever made out with a chick with four arms?"

"Of course, we know now that you are not just a Nordic Trickster," Gautama cautioned him, "And so does she. When she found out, I am told that she was… miffed."

"Miffed?" echoed Gabriel.

"Miffed," confirmed his rotund friend, "Miffed, peeved, and quite annoyed by your charade."

"Ha ha," Crowley sniggered unkindly, "Thought she was snogging Dean Martin, turned out it was Jerry Lewis."

"See, that's the thing," Gabriel sounded a little peeved himself, "If she'd wanted the stereotypical statuesque giant, with a chin like an anvil, biceps like Christmas hams and abs you could bounce pennies off, she could've had Thor, or Tyr, or Heimdall. Or, let's be honest, Sigrun or Brunhilde. But she didn't want that. She was less interested in brawn, more interested in brain. What's the point of having all that beefcake, if it can't do anything more romantically creative than show you how many push-ups it can do?" He paused thoughtfully. "Incidentally, how many _can_ Sigrun do?"

"I fucking hate you," Crowley muttered.

"Anyway, the point is, the point is, she loves me for who I am, not what I look like," Gabriel went on airily, "She loves my sense of humour, my intelligence, my penchant for fun. The fact I can hold a conversation. And, not that I want to brag or anything, I can be irresistibly suggestive with no more props than a fake moustache, an apron, or a pizza box, whereas Thor, though I love the big lug to bits, thinks that an erogenous zone is a clubhouse for a group of men all named Roger…"

"There is not enough time in all eternity for me to explain to you exactly how NOT interested I am in hearing about your erotic prowess, or your brother's lack of it," snapped Crowley, "We have to find them! We have to find Gedda! Before she eats any more curry! Oh, I hate this!"

"I wish you success," Gautama reclined once more under the tree, "And remind you that life means suffering."

"I'm not even alive, you fat cryptic prat," griped the King of Hell, "And if you don't stop projecting compassion at me, I will shove that fan so far up your obese arse that next time you open your mouth a refreshing breeze will come out. Come on, you flying fool, maybe your girlfriend has seen them."

"He's probably headed right for her," Gabriel sighed dreamily, "He likes to watch her dance. And kill. She throws him tidbits. He stole her girdle of skulls, once. She was stomping around naked for a couple of days while it was cleaned. Oh Father, she's magnificent when she's angry. Hey, you want me to set you up with one of her sisters?"

"No, I want you to shrivel away until you are nothing more than a tiny ball of scorched feathers that I can crush under my heel."

"Yeah, I'll introduce you to Bhairavi, she loves the rough stuff – talk dirty like that to her, and she'll tear your clothes off with her teeth…"

"You pillock."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

They made their way through a pleasant pastoral countryside, stopping to check directions with a blue-skinned man who was dancing and playing the flute.

"Krish!" enthused Gabriel, as the dancing figure paused in surprise, "Sup, man?"

"Loki!" exclaimed Krishna, "You have returned! Sent back to us by your Father, I have heard."

"Good news travels fast," Gabriel grinned, "We're looking for Jimi, you know him…"

"He has stolen my flute before," Krishna showed them the teeth marks in the instrument."

"Well, we think he's off to renew acquaintance with your step-mom, or at least with her girdle. Do you know which way from here?"

"Yes," the blue-skinned god pointed with his flute. "The palaces of the Mahavidyas are that way, but not as far as my home of Galoka."

Crowley peered into the distance. "There's nothing bloody there."

"They are a long way away," Krishna confirmed. "I come here to play my flute, and dance."

"What sort of an idiot travels that far from home just to dance?" demanded Crowley. "Unless your music really is that bad. I had an uncle, Uncle Malcolm, whose bagpipe playing was so awful that he was not allowed within five miles of any inhabited dwelling to practise on pain of having his chanter shoved up his arse until his liver played The Flowers Of The Forest…"

"Back home Krish has 16,108 wives waiting for him," Gabriel explained, "And they are all lovely ladies, but it can get a bit rowdy when it's bathtime for all the kids."

"So he's insane as well as tone-deaf," muttered Crowley, "And we're taking directions from him?"

"Ignore King Grumpy Pants here," Gabriel instructed his friend, "He's just worried about his little doggy, who's travelling with Jimi. Now, about your step-mom…"

"She mourned your passing," Krishna told them, "And vowed she would have no peace until she found you."

"That's just the awesome kind of guy I am," Gabriel grinned happily, unfurling his wings, "Come on, Crowley, I got a reunion to get to!"

"We are looking for my dog!" Crowley reminded him snippily.

"Yeah, well, you can catch up with your adoring bitch while I get reacquainted with mine," Gabriel's eyebrows performed another Deanesque routine as he took flight. "Actually, you might want to consider staying here with Krish for a while, she can be a bit of a screamer."

"The longer I spend with you, the less I wonder why Lucifer stabbed you."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

It wasn't a long trip as the angel flies, and they found themselves standing in front of a large palace that shifted perspective the way something viewed through warped glass can do; one moment, it appeared to be constructed of grey granite, the next, the light shifted, and it was composed of tightly packed, intricately interlocking bones.

"If nothing else, I like your lady friend's décor," Crowley admitted grudgingly, then let out a small cough. "Although she could have resited the compost heap, it's a bit whiffy."

"Oh, that'll be the cremation grounds next door," Gabriel explained, "It's kind of like a little home-away-from-home for her. She's quite fond of the vultures; she's taught some of them to swear most amusingly."

"But vultures can't talk!" protested Crowley.

"Usually, no," agreed Gabriel, "But that's because most of the time, they don't have anything to say to anybody who isn't another vulture, and even then, usually it's not much more than 'Hey, you wanna make eggs with me, babe?' or 'Are you going to eat that?' or 'Don't look now, dear, but you have blood in your feathers'…"

"That would be such a good look on you," Crowley gritted his teeth, "Can we get on?"

"Hey, you gotta let me make a suitable entrance!" enthused Gabriel, "If you don't like the mushy stuff, you might want to look away. The return of the long-lost love, the rekindling of romance, that sort of thing."

"I may just throw up," Crowley muttered as Gabriel, beaming sunnily, shoved at the massive doors before them.

They swung open with suitably impressive creaking noises, revealing a spacious ornately tiled foyer.

"So, now what?" asked Crowley, "Do we grab a passing minion, nail a love note to it, and send it off to her?"

"Nah," Gabriel smiled, "We never bothered with formalities." He drew in a deep breath, and called out in his True Voice:

"_**HI HONEY! I'M HOME!"**_

* * *

So, what happens next? Are we talking 'Here To Eternity' or 'Apocalypse Now'?

Reviews are the Amusingly Profane Talking Birds Interrupting The Pompous People You Encounter In The Garden Of Life!


	10. Chapter 10

Oh dear, here at Chez Lampito we has had a husband with gastro, and a dog with gastro (solution: feed them both with boiled chicken and rice and electrolytes), and the other dog hurting herself going over a fence, and their combined whining has drowned out poor little Stewie. But now he's whispering again, so here's the next chapter. We'll make it a nice long one, to make it up to you (as Dean Winchester once said to a young lady he had to stand up unexpectedly)...

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

Crowley put a hand to one ear. "You might've warned me before you did that," he griped accusingly. "So, where is this Madam Hot Stuff?"

"She could be anywhere, technically," Gabriel shrugged, "But you heard Krishna – she won't have peace until she finds me again! Well, call me the Peacemaker, because…"

There was a distant noise that sounded like a very angry lion.

"What the fuck was that?" yipped Crowley anxiously.

"Don't tell me you never heard of the Indian Love Call?" Gabriel grinned. He raised his voice again. "When I'm calling yoooooooo-oo-oo-ooooooo-ooooo-ooooooo…"

Another door banged open, and a towering four-armed warrior goddess, black of skin, sharp of fang and red of maw, wearing only a girdle of skulls, stamped into the room.

"You snogged that?" squeaked Crowley. "Without getting something bitten off? How?"

"Oh, she likes to make a formal entrance, don't you babe?" Gabriel beamed up at the apparition, which dropped its scimitar in apparent shock. "She's got a reputation to uphold, after all. So," he grinned cheekily, "As a small annoying blonde girl once said, I'm baaaaack!"

The monster, frozen in disbelief, wavered, shimmered, and shrank until it was an attractive woman of subcontinental descent, still staring at Gabriel as if he'd risen from the dead. Which, technically, he had.

"Loki," she breathed. "Is it… is it you?"

"Alive, kicking and in the flesh," Gabriel's smile was radiant. "You might want to look away if you didn't like 'Love, Actually' or 'Sleepless In Seattle'," he warned Crowley. "So, babe, did you miss me?"

Her face broke into a smile as she walked, no, she sashayed forward. "Oh, yes," she purred, "Yes, yes, I missed you…"

As they watched, her arms began to flame from the elbows down. She raised a hand, and flung a fireball at Gabriel's head. He barely dodged it.

"I missed you," she hissed, "But if I keep practising, I'm sure my aim will improve!"

"What did I tell you?" Gabriel burbled happily to the wincing demon, "A sense of humour will trump a six pack every ti… ow!" another fireball grazed him on the ear. "Please, honey," he waggled his eyebrows, "I know you like the rough stuff, but let's not get into the foreplay in front of guests, I'm actually not that much of an exhibitioni-OW!" Another fireball skimmed by his shoulder. "Hey!" he swatted at his smouldering robe, "You nearly got me!"

"Don't worry," she smiled like a crocodile, "I'm getting my eye in as we speak, Loki. Or should I call you, Gabriel now?"

"Yeeeep!" his wings unfurled as he dodged sideways, evading a flaming missile that would've hit him between the eyes. "Hey, you can call me whatever you like, babe, as long as you don't call me late for dinner – I'm happy with Loki, or Gabriel, whatever you'd like to call meeeEEEEE!"

"Let's start with miserable, duplicitous bastard!" she screamed, releasing another salvo as he shot into the air to dodge a searing orb that would've hit him square in the crotch. "Lying asshole skunk!"

"Now hang on, just a minute!" pleaded Gabriel, hovering and holding up his hands in a pleading gesture, "I can explain, sweetheart…"

"So can I!" Kali screeched. "The explanation is perfectly simple! You are a deceptive, deceitful, fraudulent, phony, treacherous charlatan!" She picked up a flowering plant in an ornate pot, and hurled that at him.

"OW!" Gabriel yipped. "Look, it wasn't what it looked like…"

"You LIED to me, you piece of pig dung!" The Dark Mother picked up the plinth the pot had been standing on and threw that at the dodging angel, hitting one of his wings.

"I didn't exactly lie," Gabriel stated, "I was just a bit, you know, economical with the realityeeeeeEEE!"

Another unfortunate potplant became airborne. "Don't play word games with me!" she snapped, picking up the second plinth. "You impostor!"

"I'm not! I'm not!" squealed Gabriel between aerial acrobatics, "I can't be an impostor if I was impersonating myself! OWWWW!" The second plinth found its target.

Kali pulled a decorative lamp holder from the wall. "Don't get smart with me!" she snapped, sending it hurtling into the air to smack into Gabriel's leg. "You lied to me! You told me you were an Aesir!"

"Well, I was!" Gabriel defended himself verbally and physically, "I was Loki! I still am, to them! Be nice to me, I was adopted! I wasn't deceitful, I was just… hiding my light under a bushel."

"When I'm finished with you," she hissed, picking up an ornately wrought chaise longue and tearing the back from it, "Your light under a bushel will be the least of your worries, because your head will be under the largest rock I can find, and I will fry your wings in ghee and feed what's left to the vultures!"

Gabriel twisted and turned and somersaulted, dodging flying pieces of furniture. "Please stop trying to hurt me, and let me explain," he begged.

"I don't want to hurt you," she smiled sweetly, "I want to kill you!"

"What happened to not finding peace until you had me back?" he whined.

"That was because I couldn't rest until I found you and slaughtered you for deceiving me!" she looked around; Crowley handed her a small footstool with a little bow, and she took it with a small nod of thanks and flung it upward. "Get your miserable carcass down here, you irritating two-faced underhanded little fucker!" She accepted an erotic statue from Crowley, and sent it spearing through the air.

"I'm not coming down until you promise to stop throwing things at me," pouted Gabriel, hovering with his arms crossed.

"Very well," Kali glowered, "I will stop throwing things at you."

"Promise?"

"No."

"Promise, or I'm not coming down!"

"Shall we start on the votive pots?" asked Crowley brightly, "This one has a very good heft to it."

The Dark Mother seemed to notice him for the first time. "Who are you?" she demanded. "You are a demon, aren't you?"

"Good day, Venerated Lady," he performed another small bow, "I am indeed a demon. I am Crowley, King of Hell, Adversary of Yahweh, currently most reluctant travelling companion of that annoying aerial idiot. I am searching for my little doggie, Gedda, who has been led astray by an oik that one of his scatterbrained siblings has let wander. Again. I crave your assistance, madam, have you seen my poor lost little Gedda?"

Kali subsided somewhat, her lips quirking into a small smile. "Was that her name?" she asked. "Yes, she was here, with Jimi. At least I didn't lose my girdle this time."

"She has been here?" asked Crowley. "I beg your indulgence, is she still here?"

"No, I'm afraid not," Kali smiled, "Though I would've been happy to have her stay. A happy little creature, with a delightful joy in the destruction of the sinful. She fetched me a new skull for my girdle."

"She is a people person," nodded Crowley, "But I'm so terribly worried for her, as she doesn't usually stray from home. Dear lady, did you by chance see which way she went?"

"I'm afraid I can't help you," she said, sounding truly regretful, "But I could send my vultures to search for them."

"I would be terribly grateful," Crowley told her.

"Is it safe for me to come down now?" asked Gabriel hopefully.

"That depends," Kali rumbled, "On your definition of 'safe'."

"Well, how about, 'Not in imminent danger of having something thrown at me, having my head crushed by a large rock, or being set on fire'?" he suggested.

She eyed him carefully. "Very well," she agreed, "Although," she held out a hand, and her dropped scimitar sprang into it, "I make no promises about sudden and violent decapitation."

"Ohhh, I love it when you get all assertive," Gabriel drifted down to the floor, grinning. "It'd almost be worth watching the world burn, just to see you doing your thang."

"You may be the piece of Yahweh's Creation I start with," she hissed.

"Just promise me you'll gaze into my eyes as you do it," he asked wistfully, "Then I can die happy."

"If you're mocking me," she began.

"Hey!" he cut her off, "You can call me a liar, a charlatan, a shyster, and even late for dinner, but don't accuse me of that! I have never done that! You're too important."

"In a cosmic sense, or to you?" she snapped.

"Both," he replied promptly.

Kali's glare subsided somewhat. "I'm surprised you didn't manage to trickster your way around your tantruming big brother," she commented.

"I'm not," he sighed. "He taught me everything I know. Well, apart from the thing with the moustache and the pizza box. But the important thing is, Tall Dark & Emo and Bonkomatic Man got you out of there, and went on to derail his hissy fit."

"Being who you really are, you should've stayed out of it," she said, "You should've let us handle it."

"He might've killed you!" yelped Gabriel. "We could've lost Ganesh as it was! I didn't know whether Odin and Baldur would make it back!"

"He killed _you_, idiot!" she snapped.

"Better me than you!" he shot back, "There are plenty more angels, but there's only one you! Who would dance, if not you? You think I'd want to live, not knowing if I'd ever see you dance again?"

"Oh, so it was selfishness, then," she sneered, the heat draining from her tone.

"If that's how you want to look at it, yep," Gabriel agreed immediately.

"Oh, you… you… " she glared at him, "You… you infuriating idiot!"

"Maybe," he risked a grin, "But I'm your infuriating idiot."

"You haven't learned a damned thing, have you?" she humphed at him. "Although you seem to have acquired a more polite class of friend," she smiled at Crowley. "Even if he is one of Lucifer's get."

"Hey, he's not my friend, he's my nephew!" Gabriel chirped cheerfully, as Crowley muttered "Well thank you very much".

Kali thought about that. "You have my sincere condolences," she said to Crowley.

"That is the kindest thing anybody has said to me for a long time," he sighed. "And I thank you for it. Are you sure you don't want this nice, hefty pot? The lid has quite a sharp edge, and if thrown like a discus could probably make him squeal very loudly indeed."

"Oh, she has ways and means of making me squeal, dear nephew," Gabriel waggled his eyebrows, making Crowley yelp in horror as Kali rolled her eyes, "But it's not something we do for an audience."

"I thought you were here on a quest," Kali prodded Gabriel, "According to Crowley, you are looking for his dog. And presumably, for Jimi. So perhaps you should be asking for my assistance with that."

"Would you like me to beg?" Gabriel asked solicitously. "I'd be happy to beg. And while I'm down there on my knees, I could spend a bit of time just worshiping you blindly…"

"Maybe later," she smiled enigmatically at him, and moved to a window, where she issued a rasping call. It was answered by a couple of vultures, who flew to her summons, perching carefully on the window sill.

"Cocksucker," rasped one. "Cocksucker. Cocksucker. Polly wanna liver. Cocksucker."

"Knobjockey," crackled the other, "Knobjockey. Kraaaaak! Who's a stinky boy? Knobjockey."

"I have a task for you," she told them, conferring with the birds as she set them on their search.

"Cocksucker!" "Knobjockey!" they took flight, circled to gain height, and set off in opposite directions.

"They will find your canine friends," Kali assured them, "Or at the very least, they will be able to find out where they went from here."

"That is so good of you, madam," Crowley thanked her, "And if I might ask another favour, given that your base of worship is an area of the world famed for its tea, might a traveller wearied by the distance, and the utterly insufferable company of this archidiot, might I beg you, might I implore you, for a cup of tea?"

"I'm sure that can be arranged," Kali smiled at Crowley, "Tell me, are you familiar with the sweets called jabelis?"

"Jalebis are good," Gabriel waggled his eyebrows, "They're my favourite. She makes them in obscene shapes, sometimes."

"Be silent," she sniffed, "I am talking to someone a lot more polite than you."

"Oh, come on," Gabriel grinned, "Since when does the Destroyer And Redeemer care about polite? Are you telling me that The Dark Mother wants to sit around and discuss tea and sweets with Mr Midget there…"

"Hey!" snapped Crowley, "I'm taller than you!"

"…When I could be licking the syrup off your…"

"Aaaaaaargh!" yipped Crowley. "What happened to not being an exhibitionist?"

Gabriel wasn't listening; he was kissing his way along one of Kali's arms, Gomez-to-Morticia style. "I can't help it," he asserted, "You're the mango in my lassi, you're the sesame seeds on my pooris, you're the Taj to my Mahal, you're the sacred vulture to my incomplete cremation, you're the monkeys in my ransacked kitchen, you're the cholera in my Ganges…"

Kali smiled at him. "I should've known you weren't Aesir," she told him, "None of them would ever have your way with words."

Gabriel waved a hand; a mug of tea – it was blue and had A HELLHOUND OWNS ME on it – appeared on a small table, along with a plate of sticky Indian pastries. "We could set him up with one of your sisters," he suggested. "Like a double date."

"Don't you dare!" shrieked Crowley, grabbing up the tea and the plate, and looking around for an escape.

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it," Gabriel said, "The Wisdoms are capable of the most stimulating conversations."

"Oh, so that's what you're calling it these days?" Kali cocked an eyebrow. "Just talking about it was never your style, Loki. Or should I say, Gabriel."

"But I love to talk about it!" he beamed. "Seriously, you know how much I love oral sex!"

Crowley let out a little squawk of horror, and scuttled back out the door.

The noises that emanated from the palace, even through the doors – apparently Kali was a screamer, and Gabriel's True Voice didn't leave much to the imagination – drove him to put distance between his travelling companion and his paramour. He sat on a low stone wall overlooking the cremation ground: it was a bleak landscape of bleached scree, scrubby unenthusiastic clumps of foliage, and haphazard pyres. The greasy smoke rose lazily into the air across scatters of burned bone. The smell of charred flesh hung in the air.

It was peaceful, and cosy, and it made him feel homesick.

Crowley sighed, took a sip of his tea, and inspected one of the jalebis carefully before biting into it. It really was very good.

There was a heavy flapping sound, and a vulture landed on the wall beside him.

"Pigfucker!" it squawked, "Pigfucker! Hallo! Hallo! Polly wanna blowjob! Pigfucker!"

Crowley eyed it with a sort of desperately resigned despair. "You know, after travelling with that dementedly cheerful pillock, this could possibly develop into the most bearable conversation I get to have for some time," he mused. After a moment's thought, he put down a jalebi in front of it. "I know you're supposed to be a carrion eater, but these really are quite delicious."

The vulture snapped up the treat. "Pigfucker!" it flapped its wings, "Pigfucker! Who's a perverted boy, then? Hallo! Hallo!"

"I hope your name isn't really Polly," he sighed again. "That's just cruelty to animals." He watched some of the other vultures, who were pecking around at the scorched remains on pyres. "There's something terribly sensible about that," he said to himself, "I mean, why bother chasing around after you dinner, when you can just sit around and wait for something to die?"

"Hallo! Hallo! Pigfucker!" the vulture eyed the plate of pastries meaningfully. "Polly wanna blowjob, pigfucker!"

Crowley handed over another sweet. "The whole thermal soaring thing," he went on to himself, "Why exert yourself with all that awkward flapping when you can let physics do the work for you?" He watched the shapes in the sky drift in lazy circles. "I do a lot of that," he confided to the vulture, "Going around in circles. But there's no tasty treats at the end of it, just more headaches, more paperwork, and more conniving bastards trying to kill me." He eyed the bird. "I suspect I could learn a lot from vultures," he muttered mournfully. "I think you're smarter than you let on."

"Hallo! Hallo!" rasped the vulture, bobbing its bald head. "Pigfucker! Pigfucker! Dickhead!" With a flap and a swoop, it bounced into the air, and perched precariously on his shoulder.

"Oi!" squealed Crowley in surprise, "What do you think you're doing? You're not a parrot! Get off!"

"Pigfucker! Pigfucker!" The vulture bobbed its head in excitement.

"Stop it! Shoo! Shoo!" Crowley waved his hands. The vulture just broke into a little dance. "Who do I look like, Long John bloody Silver? Get off!"

"Polly wanna blowjob?" it said plaintively, nodding at the sweets again.

"Oh, Lucifer's bum," griped Crowley, "Here. Help yourself." He moved the plate sideways, giving the vulture room to perch next to it.

"Pigfucker!" it squawked happily, hopping down to peck at the pastries. "Hallo! Hallo! Dickhead! These are damned good, aren't they? I think I'm addicted."

"I think there might be rosewater in the syrup… wha..?" Crowley gawped at the vulture. "You just talked! You can talk!"

"You didn't work that out five minutes ago?" asked the vulture. "Pigfucker? Hallo, hallo? Dickhead? Thought you were hallucinating, did you?"

"Well, er," the confused King of Hell began, "I thought you were just repeating amusingly obscene phrases."

"Well, yeah," agreed the vulture, "Herself finds it funny, and it annoys some of her more uptight sisters. Her little Viking friend never fails to find it hysterical. Although I do hear tell, he's a lot more feathery than previously thought. She didn't sound happy about it." It cocked its head. "Actually, I tell a lie, right now, she sounds quite happy about it."

"Oh, hell's bells," wailed Crowley, "I can't cope with this!"

"Won't have to for long," the vulture told him, looking skyward. "Look, there's Tony and Muriel, back again. Presumably they've figured out which way your dogs went. So, let's head back inside, we can pick up the info, and be on our way."

"And not before time… what do you mean, we?" demanded Crowley.

"Well, it's imprinting, innit?" answered the vulture. "You fed me, and you're one of the few people I've ever met who can get past the stereotype, and recognizes that we're actually intelligent birds. Mostly, people just see the outside – oooooh, look at all the blood, look at all that dead meat, look at the pieces of corpse, look at the stubby little bodies, and they're bald, what horrible things they must be…"

Crowley looked thoughtful. "Actually," he said slowly, "I'm more familiar with that mindset than you might think."

"And if I find somebody who's willing to feed me sweets, well, I'm gunna follow him, know what I mean?" the vulture ruffled its feathers. "A whole plate. You must be a real bird lover."

"Yes, I am," Crowley replied sourly, "I love them, roasted, and served up with roast potatoes, with rosemary shoved into every orifice…"

"You kinky bastard," chuckled the vulture.

"I only gave you that stuff to get you off my shoulder!" Crowley snapped. "You'll damage my jacket!"

"No problem, chum," the vulture shrugged, "We'll just get some padding for you. Like a falconer. Only I don't do falconry. I don't chase stuff. Unless it's dead, as you so observantly surmised, squire. And I'm not gunna wear jesses, all right, I do the obscene words to show willing, but the whole B&D thing just isn't me…"

"Look, I don't _want_ you to sit on my shoulder!" Crowley insisted. "I don't _want_ you to follow me!"

"No worries, then," the vulture assured him, "I can sit on your arm, but I'm a bit heavy. Shoulder might be more comfortable for both of us." Its eyes tracked the returning vultures heading back for Kali's palace. "Why don't we go and see of we can scrounge some more pastries before we head out?" It spread its wings in preparation to take off.

"Hey, get this through your bald head," Crowley griped, "Polly is not going anywhere! Polly is a homebody! Polly wanna stay put!"

"Yeah, probably," the vulture agreed, "Good thing my name's Dennis, then."

"I was never sinful enough to deserve this," Crowley muttered, as Dennis lurched into the air. "Sister Josephus was big on the fire and brimstone in catechism class, but she never warned me that sinners would be dragged through the pantheons by a ridiculously cheerful archangel-shaped lunatic and stalked by a talkative vulture. It's probably that other cheerful bastard, Buddha, and his bloody karma. His karma ran over my dogma. I hate them all." With a sigh, he set off after Dennis the vulture, back towards Kali's palace.

* * *

Dennis the vulture is all **Avalonemyst's** fault. He can't help it if he smells awful. He's a vulture. It serves Crowley right for being rude to Buddha.

Reviews are the Unexpectedly Interesting Conversations You Encounter As You Snack On The Delicious Indian Sweets Of Life!


	11. Chapter 11

Yay Stewie! He's started whispering again, and given us the next chapter of Gabe & Crowley's Excellent Adventure! (aka 'Dude, Where's My Dog?')

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

When Crowley carefully put his head back in the door, Kali and Gabriel were lounging on a piece of the furniture that The Dark Mother had not torn apart to hurl at the angel. They were smoking.

"You're smoking," he observed.

"Of course," grinned Gabriel, "Doesn't everybody after sex?"

"Er, well, some people do, yes," Crowley acknowledged, "But the point is, they usually do it by lighting cigarettes." He waved a hand at the wisps of smoke still rising from the couple. "Not by literally, er, giving off smoke." He screwed up his nose. "Pooh, singed feathers stink."

"There's a reason I call her Madam Hot Stuff," Gabriel smiled even more widely. Kali tutted, and whacked him on the arm. "Please, honey, not in front of my nephew, don't frighten the kid..."

"The vultures have returned," Kali told Crowley, as he let out a squawk of outrage at being referred to as a kid, "And although Jimi and Gedda have left this realm, they followed the dogs' trail. They were headed east."

"Hmmmm," went Gabriel.

"Hmmmm? Hmmmm? What do you mean, hmmmm?" demanded Crowley. "Is that hmmmm, as in, hmmmmm, I think I know where they are, or hmmmm, as in, hmmmmm, that means trouble?"

"Hmmmm as in, I have my suspicions about a possible destination," Gabriel told him, "He's been there before."

"Oh, no!" yelped Crowley, "If that mutt gets my poor little Gedda into trouble, I'll pull your feathers!"

"Calm down, nephew mine," Gabriel placated, "I have mucho experienco with diplomacy there."

"How much experienco do you have with havingo your halo shoved downo over your earso?" asked Crowley sourly.

Before he could answer, Dennis the vulture came flapping through the window where Muriel and Tony had perched, and sat on Crowley's shoulder. He made a gurgling contented sound, and rubbed his head against Crowley.

"Shoo! Shoo! Aaaargh!" warbled Crowley.

"Polly wanna blowjob," the vulture chittered fondly.

"Stop it!" Crowley flapped his hands in agitation, "Dennis, get off!"

"Dennis?" Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. "Did you just call that vulture Dennis?"

"It's his name!" snapped Crowley, "Seriously, you feathered fool, get off!"

With a chitter of reluctance, the vulture hopped off Crowley's shoulder, and perched on an ornate statue. "Polly wanna blowjob?" it said plaintively, gazing up at him.

"Oh, yeah, you got a friend," laughed Gabriel, as Dennis rubbed his head against Crowley, eliciting a little shriek from the King of Hell.

"Stop that!" Crowley yipped. Dennis subsided.

"How remarkable," observed Kali, "It looks as though one of the vultures has befriended you."

"I didn't want to be befriended!" howled Crowley, as the vulture began to do a small bobbing dance. "Dennis, please stop doing that. So, are we leaving?"

As he spoke, the vulture let out a pleased squawk, and jumped back onto Crowley's shoulder. "No, not you!" he wailed at the vulture.

"Pigfucker!" Dennis bobbed up and down excitedly, rustling his wings.

"It's amazing," Gabriel grinned, "It's like he understands every word you say."

"Nonetheless," Kali eyed the agitated demon, "It appears that he is preparing to accompany you."

"I have no desire to abduct one of your obscene avian accomplices!" Crowley assured her hurriedly. "Madam, feel free to call your bird off!"

"Pigfucker," Dennis bobbed happily again, then rested his head on top of Crowley's and gazing plaintively at the Dark Mother.

Kali smiled gently. "It is kind of you to wish to avoid upsetting me by taking one of my feathery friends," she told him, "Which is just another indication of how good your manners are." She elbowed Gabriel. "Why are your manners not as nice as your nephew's?"

"Uh, because then I'd be no fun in bed?" he beamed at her. "After all, I am the..."

"PIGFUCKER!" screeched Dennis.

"Dennis," Crowley addressed the vulture firmly, "Dennis, I really think you should stay here, where you belong."

Dennis drooped all over, and gave him the saddest look any bird had managed since Big Bird found out that Mr Hooper was dead.

"He is clearly comfortable with you," Kali went on, "And so I shall gift him to you, as a companion, with my good wishes."

"Dickhead," sighed Dennis, resting his head on Crowley's head again and closing his eyes.

"Oh, Goody," moaned Crowley. "Now I have two feathered smartarses to talk shit the entire time we are on this miserable mission."

"I think it's sweet," Gabriel grinned, "He's clearly found somebody who shares his interests: blood, guts, rotting flesh, tearing the dead to pieces..."

"Jalebis," muttered Crowley.

"Pigfucker! Pigfucker! Pigfuckerfuckerfucker!" Dennis brayed enthusiastically at the mention of his favourite sweets.

"I shall send you on your way with some," Kali assured them, summoning a servant, "And wish you a safe and successful journey. I hope you will return, and visit me again."

"Hey, no problem, babe," Gabriel smirked, "You just call me..."

"DICKHEAD!" screeched Dennis.

"I was in fact extending an invitation to Crowley. And Dennis," she told the angel primly. "You I shall contact at such time as I am fully decided that I do not wish to kill you for your deceit."

"I love it when you play hard to get," Gabriel sighed happily, kissing her hand and making an elaborate bow. "And so, with your leave, we shall depart, Revered Kali-Ma, Dark Mother, Dancing Lady and All Around Hot Chick."

"Begone, Trickster," she intoned commandingly, "Do not feel under any compulsion to share," she added to Crowley, handing over a bag of sweet treats.

"Thank you, madam. I think," sighed Crowley, making a little bow, which set Dennis aflutter. "Ow! OW! Cut it out, you feathery idiot! Speaking of feathery idiots, where are we headed next?"

Gabriel took wing...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Where the hell are we now?" griped Crowley, peering around at the jungle. "Oh, no, more bloody trees."

"There won't be any snow here," Gabriel assured him. "Water, yes, and I suggest you don't drink it – this is one place where you do_ not _want to experience Montezuma's Revenge. Stick to the beer. In fact, you gotta try the chocolate beer while we're here. Chocolate beer! How cool is that? Two of my most favouritist things ever in one!" He headed into the jungle.

"Sounds sacrilegious and indigestible," sniffed Crowley, peering into the bag he was carrying, "I'll stick to these."

"Pigfucker!" Dennis managed a rasping call that was almost a cheerful chirp, "Pigfucker, dickhead! Polly wanna blowjob!"

"Dennis wanna jalebi," Crowley said. "Go on, you're such an intelligent bird, say it. Dennis wanna jalebi."

"Polly wanna blowjob!" Dennis bobbed up and down.

"No, no, Dennis wanna jalebi," Crowley repeated, waving the pastry, "Dennis wanna jalebi."

"Polly wanna blowjob!"

"Dennis," growled Crowley, "I am the one with the bag and the opposable thumbs, here."

"Dennis not very good with delayed gratification?" shrugged the vulture.

"Close enough." Crowley handed the sweet over.

Gabriel led them towards a large pyramid, which turned out to be a stepped structure. In a clearing at the base of it, a figure was dancing. As it danced, its appearance wavered between that of a man, and that of a large, unexpectedly fluffy snake.

"Hey, Quez!" called Gabriel, waving, "How's it goin'?"

The dancing figure paused in snake form, reared up, impressive plumage bristling, then shrank, resolving into the appearance of a man in an ornately decorated feathered costume.

"Loki, my friend!" the olive-skinned man beamed, "Or should I call you Gabriel now?"

"Is there anybody who doesn't know?" Gabriel wailed.

"I doubt it," 'Quez' grinned whitely, "After Kali came to see Mictecacihuatl, seeking news of your whereabouts..."

"Mictle-who?" asked Crowley.

"Goddess of the Underworld here," groaned Gabriel, "A lovely woman, but Mikki is a worse gossip than Hathor, and that is saying something. Well, look on the bright side, it'll save me explaining myself as we go, I suppose. Anyway, Crowley, this is Quetzalcoatl, Lord of the West and god of knowledge in these parts and all-around okay dude. Quez, this is Crowley, King of Hell and Yahweh's Adversary, and my nephew. It's okay," Gabriel grinned, "We don't have to explain complicated family trees to anyone here."

"How do you do," Crowley said as politely as he could manage, "We are here on an errand of some urgency... eep!"

As he spoke, something rolled down the pyramid, and bounced awkwardly past their feet to roll off into the jungle.

"What the hell was that?" yapped the King of Hell.

"Oh, just a severed head," Gabriel waved a hand dismissively, "They do that a lot here. It's what they did when they were alive, so now in the afterlife, they like to keep it up. It's always this ritual, or that ritual, seriously, the priests here are always lopping noggins off, left right and centre. Some days, you can stand down here and set up pins, in a really interesting version of retro-bowling."

As they watched, another bloodied head tumbled down the pyramid, rebounded awkwardly, and headed straight for them. Gabriel stuck out a foot, kicked, and sent it shooting off between two tall trees.

"Goooooooooooaaaaaaaal!" he cheered, throwing his arms in the air.

"You'll have to forgive him," Crowley sighed, "He was adopted and raised by blonde Neanderthals. So, as I was saying, we are here on an errand..."

"Pigfucker!" squawked Dennis. "Polly wanna introduction?"

"Oh. er," Crowley stuttered. "This is, er, Dennis. He's attached himself to me. Just ignore him, and maybe he'll go away."

Quetzalcoatl bowed formally to Dennis. "Welcome, messenger of the gods," he intoned, as Dennis bobbed his head. "What intelligence do you bring? Are you here with news, or do you prophesy?"

"Dickhead," rasped Dennis portentously.

The Lord of the West frowned.

"Er, I'm sorry about that," Crowley said, "He has a talent for bad language..."

"Oh, it's normal for celestial messengers to speak in riddles," Quetzalcoatl reassured him, "This is possibly a reference to my part in bringing forth humans with blood from wounds to my forehead and penis..."

"Okay, that right there, I would've preferred as an obscure riddle," Crowley blanched.

"No weirder than Dad making humans out of dirt, or ribs," shrugged Gabriel. "But they venerate vultures here. It's just a god thing."

"This is a message that requires much thought," Quetzalcoatl decided, bowing to Dennis once more. "I thank you for this wisdom." Dennis bobbed back, and preened. "You must be a powerful King, Your Majesty, to be personally accompanied by such a messenger," the Aztec god went on.

"Well," Crowley felt a sudden inexplicable urge to tell the truth, "I think he just follows me for the sweets. If you'd like to adopt him..."

"Polly wanna head!" Dennis suddenly took off, and swooped down at a severed head that boinged off the last stone tier. He pecked at the bloodied thing contentedly.

"Although," Crowley went on, "I can see that we might find a place for him down amongst the racks..."

"But seriously, Quez," Gabriel cut in, "Not that your company – not to mention your chocolate beer – isn't reason enough to visit, but we're looking for a couple of dogs who are wandering where they probably shouldn't..."

"Ah, that would be Jimi, and his companion," Quetzalcoatl smiled, "He has visited here before. He helps Itzpapalotltotec herd the sacred llamas. Xolotl is very fond of him, of course, being dog-headed himself, and sometimes spends time playing Fetch with him, when the priests are particularly productive. Honestly, he'll chase heads all day if you're prepared to keep throwing them for him."

"Yep, that sounds like Jimi," smiled Gabriel.

"What about this companion?" pressed Crowley, "My little doggy Gedda, led astray by that treacherous mutt in a Rottweiler suit. I'm so worried about her, she must be missing her snackies and her own bed by now."

"Was that her name?" Quetzalcoatl replied with a smile. "What a wonderful little creature! She quite charmed everybody, although she did grab a couple of my feathers, such a playful animal. Xolotl was smitten, and she spent an entire feast sitting in his lap. I think she might've eaten about twice her own weight in turkey. And when Tonacacihuatl was baking her sweet bean cakes, I think that little Gedda might've begged at least half of them; they almost got into an argument over who would adopt her, if she stayed."

"Aaaaand that definitely sounds like Gedda," confirmed Gabriel.

"Bean cakes?" Crowley's eyes bugged. "You fed her bean cakes? Lucifer's bum! For your sake, mate, I hope nobody lets her near any open fires after that, feathers smell nasty when they burn, and I suggest you leave all your windows open just in case..."

"We're trying to catch up with them before the head somewhere where the cause a diplomatic incident," Gabriel cut in. "Not everybody is a dog person. Are they still here?"

"I don't know," Quetzalcoatl shook his head, making his headdress rustle slightly, "But I can ask my other brothers of the Four Points. I saw them arrive, but not leave; chances are, they've gone East."

"Oh," muttered Gabriel.

"Oh? Oh?" demanded Crowley, "What's 'Oh'?"

"Let's just not get into a flap until there's something to flap about, okay?" Gabriel gave him a grin, "Come on, Quez, lead the way."

Quetzalcoatl resumed the form of a large plumed serpent, and gracefully undulated away. As they followed him around the base of the pyramid, the occasional head still bouncing down to ricochet off the stonework, Dennis took wing and landed on Crowley's shoulder once more.

"Oh, yuck!" yelped Crowley.

"Er," stammered Dennis, "Polly wanna napkin?"

"If you dare drip that, that, that _gunk_ on this jacket," the King of Hell growled, "I will turn you into a Christmas dinner! There will be rosemary and onion stuffing! There will be cranberry involvement! And you will NOT enjoy it!"

"Dickhead," Dennis cackled apologetically, and wiped his beak on his feathers.

The settlement that the serpent led them to was large and bustling, with people going about the simple entertainments they enjoyed when they were alive. Occasionally an ornately dressed figure, a god or goddess, would be visible. One such figure, a voluptuous woman, detached herself from the crowd, and sashayed towards them, carrying two ceramic mugs.

"Hello, Loki," she purred as she handed him a drink, while smiling at Crowley and invading his personal space more effectively than the most clueless angel would manage, "Why don't you introduce me to your... friend?"

"I'm not his friend!" yipped Crowley, "Madam, please, we have not been introduced!"

"Ohhhh, this is a good batch," grinned Gabriel, smacking his lips appreciatively. "Crowley, this is Xochiquetzal, goddess of pleasure and indulgence. Xochi, this is King Crowley of Hell, badass demon and convenor of the most terrifying meetings in existence."

"Truly a pleasure, Your Majesty," she dropped an undulating curtsey that gave him a good view of her undoubted physical charms, "Will you have a drink?" She pressed the mug into his hands; he clutched it to himself like a shield. "Come, sit with me, eat, and tell me of your realm." With the effortlessness of a seasoned Society matron manoeuvring a first-term Senator, she steered them towards a table set with plates and food. "It is our custom to see that honoured guests are properly... entertained."

"Polly wanna blowjob?" suggested Dennis cheerfully.

"Er, indeed," gulped Crowley, "I am in fact here on official business, looking for my poor lost little dog." He took a gulp of the dark, foamy beer. "Oh, that's, er, that's rather good. Not my usual sort of tipple, but, um, yes." He took another drink. "A bit like a good stout. You brew this yourself?"

"I have many talents," she smiled engagingly. "Come, sit and eat. Tell me of your travels with Loki. Or Gabriel, as we now know him to be."

"I would hate to bore you with the details of my trials and tribulations at the hands of this lunatic," he sighed, sniffing at the plate of meat she put before him. "That smells rather good, actually..."

"Duck roasted with mushrooms," she told him. "One of Gabriel's favourites, if I recall correctly. And this is squash, roasted with honey."

"Dig in, Crowley," Gabriel did exactly that, heaping his plate. "They know how to eat here. So, Xochi," he waggled his eyebrows, "Why don't you tell us what – or who – you've been doing since I saw you last?"

"Loki!"

A voice like nails down a blackboard made both of them jump. Another ornately dressed woman, another goddess, was approaching, but whereas Xochiquetzal's expression was purely come-hither, the new arrival's was entirely go-elsewhere.

"Where have you been?" she demanded. "We all thought you were dead! Kali was beside herself!"

"Hello, Taz," Gabriel sighed in a long-suffering fashion, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you."

"Well, you did," snapped 'Taz', plonking herself down beside him. "Are you going to eat all that? There's a lot of fat there. Have some vegetables with it." She glared at Crowley. "Who's that? And why is his clothing so dirty?"

"Blame the damned vulture," snapped Crowley.

She peered hard at the Dennis. "Your feathers are coated with something disgusting," she told him, "A messenger of the gods should take more care with his appearance."

"Pigfucker," rasped Dennis resentfully, shuffling closer to Crowley and hiding his head under a wing.

"Taz, this is Crowley, my nephew and King of Hell in my Father's Creation", Gabriel said, smiling through clenched teeth. "Crowley, meet Tlazoltetol, goddess of guilt."

"And cleansing," she snapped, prodding disapprovingly at Gabriel's robes. "You are filthy. And singed. You've been with Kali again, haven't you? Did you even bathe afterwards?"

"He didn't, you know," Crowley added helpfully, taking another drink of his chocolate beer. "He just sat there, smoking. Indoors. This duck is delicious, Xochiquetzal – may I call you Xochi?"

"You are lucky she'd even have you back," Tlazoltetol scowled, "There are not enough words in the Five Worlds for you to apologise for the distress you caused her."

"Oh, distress, yes," Crowley nodded, "It was so upsetting to see the lady in such pain, she was heartbroken."

"You see?" she prodded Gabriel in triumph. "You upset your nephew as well!"

"Hey!" protested Gabriel, "I went to see her, and say sorry, okay? And she accepted my apology. You know she did, otherwise I wouldn't be sitting here like this will all my limbs still attached!"

"I should think so, too," Tlazotetol crossed her arms and glared. "When was the last time you visited your daughter? She's been alone for so long, what with Lucifer in the Cage, and you out gallivanting..."

"Gallivanting?" echoed Gabriel. "Gallivanting? Did you just accuse me of gallivanting?"

"I believe she did," nodded Crowley, holding his mug out for Xochiquetzal to refill it, "And 'gallivanting' is the perfect description for it. Are those shrimp, Xochi? Yes, thank you, they look delicious..."

"I went to see Hel," Gabriel said defensively, "Right after I went to visit my Aesir parents, so don't get on my case about that!"

"About time, too," sniffed the goddess of guilt, "Freya always says that you only ever visit her if you're hungry, or you want laundry done. Speaking of which, you could definitely do with a visit to the washing stones by the river."

"He hasn't changed that robe since we've been travelling," supplied Crowley, helping himself as his obliging hostess handed him a small plate of cashew cakes. "You know, these might go really well with the duck."

"Not helping, nephew Crowley," Gabriel trilled through a forced smile.

"Not caring, Uncle Gabriel," Crowley beamed back, raising his mug of choco-beer.

"That doesn't surprise me in the least," said Tlazotetol crossly.

"You know that he watches pornography when he's gadding about on his Father's planet," Crowley offered in a scandalised whisper. "And him the most senior Messenger of The Lord, too. What sort of an example is that for an archangel to set, I ask you?"

"What indeed," sneered 'Taz', "That's the thing about you, Gabriel, you are a selfish, selfish creature. Haven't you eaten enough already? You can be so greedy."

Xochiquetzal plied Crowley with delicacies and fascinating conversation while Tlazotetol hanrangued Gabriel about his shortcomings, failings and pecadilloes, which were, in her estimation, numerous. It was something of a relief to the archangel when the feathered serpent reappeared.

"Quez!" he yelped with relief, "Sup, m'snake?"

"I have consulted my brothers," Quetzalcoatl replied, "And Xipe-Totec, Lord of the East, saw them last, leaving his realm."

"East it is, then," sighed Gabriel, "Oh dear. Look, much as enjoy having you screech in my ear, you harrassing harridan, we really have to get going, and catch up with our missing dogs..."

"Can you not stay for the feasting tonight?" asked Xochiquetzal, pouting most prettily, "There will be dancing, and drinking, and... other enjoyable diversions."

"Alas, dear lady, we must be gone," Crowley told her sadly, "And while I would like nothing better than to see my uncle enjoying the company of his current companion for as much time as she deems necessary to point out all of his faults and flaws, time is of the essence."

"Polly wanna blowjob," Dennis added regretfully. "And some more of those cashew cakes would be nice."

The goddess of indulgence pressed a small bag of goodies upon Crowley, whilst the goddess of guilt pressed a few more withering observations of the many ways in which she found him unsatisfactory upon Gabriel.

"Thanks for the help, Quez," Gabriel clapped his friend on the shoulder, "Drop by next time you're in the neighbourhood. You got your chocolate brewskis? Let me introduce you to deep-fried beer."

"Farewell, charming hostess," Crowley gave Xochiquetzal a small bow, and Dennis bobbed his head politely.

"Why are you never that polite?" Tlazotetol elbowed Gabriel viciously in the ribs, "Why are you always so rude? Why don't you dress more nicely? Why can't you be more like your nephew?"

"Good_bye_, Taz," Gabriel's teeth were so tightly clenched he feared for his vessel's dental well-being.

"What interesting friends you do have, Uncle Gabriel," Crowley smiled.

"The next time we go on a double date, I get first pick, okay?" griped Gabriel. "Hey, are those Xochi's cashew cakes? They're great! Here, let me have one..."

He grabbed at the intricately woven bag and opened the drawstring.

_Gabriel, don't you dare stuff your face with these, you glutton! _Taz's voice drifted out. _Do NOT wipe your hands on your robe! _ _And brush your teeth afterwards!_

"Dickhead," Dennis let out an avian snigger as Gabriel sighed, and took wing.

* * *

Reviews are the Unexpected Chocolate Enhancement Of Your Favourite Treat At The Dining Table Of Life!

**Denizens:** Ooooh, chocolate-dunked Dean, chocolate-dunked Sam, chocolate-dunked Cas, chocolate-dunked Crowley, fangirlfangirlfangirl

**Lampito:** Well, I was actually thinking of peanuts, and sultanas, and very good vanilla bean ice-cream, you depraved individuals.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

"Well, at least the trees have backed off a bit," conceded Crowley, peering out over the plains and swaying reeds to either side of the river.

"The river floods here, so they don't grow so far down the banks," Gabriel told him.

"I suppose I should be grateful that there's not likely to be any snow," the King of Hell muttered, kicking at a log on the river bank. "Not with this heat..."

The crocodile opened one lazy eye, and peered up at him.

"I could have your leg off for that, you clumsy ass," it rumbled resentfully. "Watch where you put your feet."

"Pigfucker! Pigfucker!" squawked Dennis as Crowley let out a small shriek of surprise.

"You need to get your biped better trained," the crocodile snapped at the vulture. "There's no need to be rude."

"Sorry about that," Dennis apologised. "He's new. You have to tolerate a certain clumsiness, what with them only having two legs and those flat little feet. How they balance like that is beyond me."

The crocodile let out a huff that would've done Sam Winchester proud, and went back to his sunbathing.

Gabriel grabbed Crowley's arm, and pulled him away from the river. "Don't go provoking the locals!" he hissed, "We may not get a completely friendly and ecstatic welcome here!"

"Where exactly is 'here'?" asked Crowley, looking around.

"The Field of Reeds," Gabriel replied, "And I have to warn you, they are cat people here."

"Now he tells me," observed Crowley sourly. "So, what have you done to piss them off, then? Seduced somebody's daughter, perhaps? Turned somebody into a giant chocolate statue? Put a whoopee cushion on somebody's throne?"

"Frankly, a lot of them never really forgave us completely for the whole smite-the-firstborn-Angel-Of-Death thing," confided Gabriel.

"What do you mean 'us', white man?" demanded Crowley. "I'm not 'us'! If anything, I'm 'them'!"

"Look, me, personally, I didn't do anything!" Gabriel shot back. "Okay, replacing the wheels on Horus's chariot with a couple of giant Moon Pies, that was me, but the problem is mostly because of Jimi Senior."

"Let me guess," Crowley scowled, "He's been here before."

"Yep," Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Jimi has visited, and made something of a nuisance of himself. He's a bit too... boisterous for their liking."

"Boisterous?" repeated Crowley.

"You know what he's like, he just wants to be friends and play with everyone. Cocking his leg on the sacred sycamores, stealing Osiris's staff – then trying to bury it in the Firmament, so he pissed Danael off, too – barking at the crocodiles, wanting to play fetch with a sun disc, that sort of thing."

"Great, just great," Crowley griped, "So, if it's not safe to approach the locals in case we get taken to task for your stray's antics, how do we ask if anybody has seen them?"

"There's a couple of guys here who'll help us," Gabriel assured him, "All we have to do is get to one of 'em without drawing any attention. So, let sleeping crocodiles lie."

They pushed their way through the reed banks until they found clear ground, and Gabriel peered around. "He'll be at the gates, where he works," he asserted, "So, please secure your tray in the upright position, and ensure that your seatbelt is fastened."

He spread his wings...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

They landed near a large, ornate stone structure, a tall imposing gate, carved with hieroglyphs and statues of animal-headed gods sitting on thrones. A group of people of diverse appearances were milling about, chatting, eating what looked like bread and dips, and admiring the views over the Field of Reeds. A tall figure, with a distinctly canine head, stood at a counter on a dais at one end of the room.

There was a soft 'bong-BONG-bong' chime, and an LED panel on the wall lit up with a series of hieroglyphs. A woman wearing the sort of garb probably last seen in profusion at Woodstock looked down at a ticket she was holding, and made her way to the counter.

Gabriel gave the dog-headed man a discreet wave, and the muzzle offered a canine grin.

"Gavriel!" the figure spoke in a deep, rich voice, "A moment please, my friend..."

He turned back to the woman at the counter, and spoke with her. She nodded, smiled, then reached into her own chest to pull out her heart. She handed it over, and the god placed it carefully in what looked like a delicate glass cabinet, then peered at panel that lit up with numbers.

Apparently satisfied with result, he opened a door behind the counter for her, and waved her through. With a brief word of thanks, she smiled, and disappeared.

The god reached under the counter and re-emerged with a small sign, reading

_**BACK IN UIIIII MINUTES**_

which he placed on the counter, before striding over to greet them.

"So, what brings you to our realm, Gavriel?" asked the dog deity, clapping the angel of the shoulder.

"Gavriel?" queried Crowley.

"It's my Hebrew name," Gabriel explained, "The consonant shift came with translations a long time after I first met Ani here. Crowley, this is Anubis, Lord of the Underworld, Judge of the Dead, patron of Embalming, and one of the few here who doesn't mind Jimi's visits. Ani, this is Crowley. He's King of our Hell, whilst his Dad is dallying with my daughter, and all-around asshole."

"Pigfucker!" cawed Dennis cheerfully.

"And that's Dennis the foul-mouthed vulture," Gabriel jerked a thumb at Dennis, who did a little dance of greeting, making Crowley wince.

"Greetings," Anubis bowed formally, "Welcome to the Field of Reeds."

"I've read about you," Crowley stared at the tall god, "You decide who gets into the Egyptian afterlife. Weighing people's hearts against a feather, isn't it?"

"The feather of truth, that's me," the dog-head grinned, "Keeper of the Gate."

"So," Gabriel looked around, "You still keeping busy, then?"

"Not so much these days," Anubis shrugged good-naturedly, "And never so much as that night you and your lot went completely baboon-shit on the firstborn. It took me weeks to clear the backlog! It was chaos in here!"

"Oh, er, sorry," Gabriel said sheepishly.

"Was this the Plagues of Egypt thing?" asked Crowley.

"Yeah," Gabriel grinned. "The frogs thing was my idea. It was hilarious! I mean, frogs, they're not very frightening, really, but they were everywhere, going 'nee-deep, nee-deep', and they were in people's beds, and they were in people's kitchens – incidentally, I have a really interesting theory of how aspects of French cuisine are derived from Old Testament times..."

Anubis waved a hand airily. "Apophis gave me a hand," he explained, "He's an evil old serpent, but he was efficient, I'll give him that. He just came in, sniffed out sinners, and devoured them. And Tawaret picked up all those who hadn't lived long enough to behave badly, and herded them along. She is wonderful with children."

"Yeah," Gabriel sighed, "Dad can get pretty grumpy if you try to talk back to Him."

"But we still have some worshippers for me to deal with. Hey, look at this!" He led them to the counter, and proudly indicated an expensive looking piece of equipment.

"What is that?" asked Gabriel.

"That, my friend, is a top-of-the-line Sartorius six decimal place analytical balance!" grinned Anubis. "It's so much more reliable than the old pan scales. And these days, truth is so much harder to weigh, I need to be able to get down to micrograms with some people."

"You always did love your gadgets, didn't you?" Gabriel grinned back. "Ani here is the Field's early adopter."

"I think it's because I've had so much contact with humanity," mused Anubis. "It's not always good – that Rubik's Cube thing drove me mad. But I don't know how I ever managed without the microwave."

"Well, your, er, balance is, er, very nice," acknowledged Crowley, "However, we are on a mission of some urgency. The dog Jimi, that Rottie-shaped reprobate that his lot are supposed to be keeping under control until his Hunter carks it, is on the loose, and..."

"Yes," Anubis intoned ominously. "I know. Everybody knows. Isis made sure that everybody knows. She is not pleased."

"Oh dear," muttered Gabriel. "She is one chick you don't want to cross. This is bad..."

"Worse than you know," commiserated Anubis. "He piddled on her favourite sycamore tree – again – and dug up a couple of saplings. It's the manure, you know, when they plant them out. It just smells so enticing, some days it's all I can do to stop myself rolling in it."

"Oh yeah, this is bad," Gabriel said.

"Then he stampeded the hippopotami," Anubis went on. "The sun-boat of Ra was almost swamped."

"Not good," said Gabriel.

"Not good," agreed Anubis. "Ra will forgive you – after all, your Father's plague of darkness was the only vacation he's ever had. But when Jimi was caught chewing on Horus's chariot, _he_ was _not _amused."

"He's almost as grumpy as my Dad," Gabriel sighed. "And the whole chariot wheel thing, he really did not get the joke."

"Pigfucker," intoned Dennis ominously.

"Indeed," Anubis went on, "To cap it all off, Jimi was found later, napping on Osiris's throne. After having rolled in the dung of the Apis-bull beforehand. I don't think that improved matters."

"Well, that damned nuisance dognapped my companion, my poor little Gedda, and is dragging her around with him on his voyage of destruction," Crowley stated. "We are here to find them, and take them away. Was she with him? Are they still here?"

"I'm afraid I don't know," the Keeper of the Gate admitted. "I've been here, mostly."

"Well, it sounds as though marching into the palace and asking might not be the smartest move," Gabriel frowned in thought. "Maybe if I can find Set, he knows something. He doesn't mind Jimi."

"They play Fetch with the body parts of the wicked," grinned Anubis. "Otherwise, perhaps you could send your friend Dennis here to listen to the news, he won't look out of place."

"Who's going to want to talk to a bloody great vulture?" asked Crowley. "One, I might add, with a completely foul mouth."

"Egyptians, actually," nodded Gabriel, "They regard vultures as representing good parenthood or guardianship, responsibility, and cleansing. Good thinking, Ani. How about it, Dennis?" he asked the vulture. "Polly wanna go and mingle with the locals?"

"Polly wanna blowjob, dickhead!" replied Dennis, bobbing his head.

"Well," Gabriel continued thoughtfully, "There will probably be some lady vultures around, too, and I don't know what vultures do, with the beaks and all, but maybe..."

"I'm on it, dickhead!" Dennis chirped cheerfully and took wing, eliciting protests from Crowley as the vulture battered him about the head with his wings during takeoff.

"Aaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaargh!" The King of Hell spat out a feather. "Bloody bird!"

"Meanwhile, we will go look for Set," decided Gabriel. "Discreetly. You remember how to do discreet, Crowley?"

"Says the guy with six whacking great gold wings sticking out of him," sneered the demon.

Gabriel shrugged, and his wings disappeared. "We'd better get going," he said, "If they're still here, the sooner we find them the better. Thanks, Ani. Oh, I nearly forgot," he handed over a small square item. "Thought you'd like this."

Anubis took the square, and panted happily. "_Call Of Duty: Kratos' Final Fantasy_", he read. "Hey, thanks Gavriel!"

"Enjoy, dude," Gabriel smiled. "It's the first one they put out since the amalgamation. Come on, nephew mine, let's get sneaky."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Yahweh's youngest archangel landed them in a secluded courtyard of a large, sumptuous palace built of stone. A cat snoozing on a pile of large clay jars opened one eye, pulled an expression indicating just how unimportant it had decided they were, and went back to sleep.

"It's just my luck," Crowley griped, "That I would get dragged into a pantheon where everybody hates dogs, and everybody wants to kill you."

"They don't _all _hate _all_ dogs," Gabriel corrected, "They do have hunting hounds, you know. They just don't like anything that upsets the cats. Ancient Egyptians revered cats as divine, and cats have never forgotten that." He jerked a thumb at the fat, contented tabby ignoring them. "And I don't think they actually want to _kill _me. Not much, anyway. Maybe just a bit. And Set's okay. He's kind of like a patron god of foreigners here, and he's kind of fond of Jimi. And he's Osiris's brother. They actually get along better than some of the mythology would have you believe. They're a bit like Rocky and Bullwinkle Winchester, in some ways."

"Really?" sneered Crowley. "So, one of them is an insufferably arrogant thug, and the other is a self-righteous pillock with a stick up his arse?"

"That would be one way of interpreting it," agreed Gabriel. "Come on, he's probably with the dogs anyway."

Moving through outer courtyards and passages meant to be used by servants, they made their way through the palace until, peering through the fronds of a large potted palm, they could see a large outbuilding with servants coming and going. Trainers walked pairs of tall sighthounds, while other dogs lounged under trees in fenced pens.

"This is ridiculous," griped Crowley, peeking through the foliage. "I feel like I'm stuck in a bad sitcom. What am I looking at, anyway?"

"That's the royal kennels," Gabriel pointed out, "If we can get there unnoticed, we can probably find Set."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "If you dare suggest that we pick up this pot and try to get closer by shuffling over there like the Walking Tree of Dahomey, I will deep fry your wings myself." He scowled at Gabriel. "That's what you were going to suggest, isn't it?"

"No! No!" yelped Gabriel, quickly discarding that plan. "Look, if Set is there, we can... aha!"

Another tall figure, with a head of canine appearance, emerged from the kennel, spoke briefly with a trainer, then headed for the palace.

It paused when it passed by a wall, and heard one of the plants hiss at it.

"Pssssst! Pssssssst!"

The tall figure paused, dog-like ears twitching.

"Pssssssssssssssssst!"

It shook its head, thinking it must be hearing things...

"Oi! You! With the head like an SPCA special! Bloody psssssst!"

"Wadjet, is that you?" he asked cautiously, "You're not laying your eggs in the potplants again, are you? You know it scares the servants, they find giant snake eggs in the greenery and some of them go quite funny about it..."

"Pssssssst, Set!" the tree said again. One of the fronds rustled at him. "It's me! Gavriel!"

"Gavriel!" the animal-headed god smiled. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here with my nephew," the frond replied, "We came to fetch Jimi Senior home before he causes any trouble."

"Too late, I'm afraid," Set lounged against the wall and spoke to the palm tree, "I did try to grab him, but he's just a very happy soul who wants to play."

"Did you see another dog with him?" asked another frond, "A smaller, prettier, far more adorable dog? That mutt is leading my poor little Gedda astray, and getting her into trouble, I'll never forgive him..."

"Oh, yes," Set grinned in recall, "There was another one. She was absolutely adorable. Possibly because she's catlike in size. Even Isis thought she was adorable."

"She did?" marvelled Gabriel.

"Oh, yes," nodded Set, "Right up until – Gedda, was it? – right up until Gedda chased Bast up a tree."

"I knew it!" wailed the frond, trembling with despair, "I knew it! That miserable bastard is teaching her bad manners! He'll get her into trouble! Oh, my poor little doggy."

"We really need to find them," cut in the first frond, "Before they do any more damage. Danael will be beside herself already; she hates diplomatic unpleasantness. Are they still here?"

"I don't know," Set shrugged apologetically, "But we can ask Ra. He sees much from his boat."

"Thanks, Set," the first frond sighed, "I owe you one."

"You can owe Ra one," Set suggested, "Every so often, he toys with the idea of asking you if your Father could arrange another few days of darkness, so he can put the boat in dry dock and scrape her hull properly." He cocked his head in a fashion reminiscent of a confused German Shepherd. "You're not going to pick up that pot and try to follow me by hiding behind that tree, I hope."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The royal landings by the palace of the Field of Reeds' gods and goddesses were extensive and busy, so they waited for a lull in the foot traffic before quickly following as Set strolled casually towards a pier at which was moored a large, well-maintained reed boat. A falcon-headed figure was moving around on board, inspecting the deck.

"Ra!" called Set, "We have a visitor!" He stepped aside, and Gabriel waved cheerfully.

"Gavriel!" Ra leaped ashore with the ease of a sailor with much practice. "Long time no smite," he added ruefully.

"The longer the better," Gabriel told him, "Look, I'll make this quick, this is Crowley, King of Hell, and he's with me because his dog is on the loose with Jimi. Ani and Set say they've caused enough trouble already, so we'd like to find them, hush-hush, and take them home. Are they still here? Do you know where they are?"

"I suspect they must have left, since the screaming from the palace has largely subsided," Ra glanced back at the majestic complex.

"Nut's dugs, that woman can be terrifying." muttered Set.

"But I am about to launch my morning voyage," Ra went on, "I will be able to see if they are still in the Field of Reeds, and if not, which way they went."

"I'd be really grateful," Gabriel said fervently. "I'll ask Dad about the darkness thing for you, if you like, but don't get your hopes up, He's a much more hands-off kind of guy these days."

"That may not be a bad thing," shrugged Ra philosophically. "So, I will return with news of your wandering dogs." He leaped back aboard, cast off, and took the tiller as the boat began to move. "Best stay out of sight until then."

"Sound advice," intoned Set. "We will find you a suite somewhere, I will furnish you with refreshments, until such time as..."

There was a commotion further up the landings, as sailors, bargemasters and servants scattered to get out of the way of something.

A figure, a woman, was striding, stomping towards them, a lithe figure resplendent in a highly decorated linen garment, rendered strange only by the fact that the head was that of a bird of prey. An angry bird of prey. At her side strode a green-skinned man, dressed in a similar fashion and wearing a tall crown. A retinue trailed behind them, confused at being diverted from their usual procession to the royal barge, and scuttled to keep up.

As she approached, she let out a screech, the hunting call of a raptor about to dive upon its prey, and her form wavered, shifted, until her face was that of a woman, and her expression was much more frightening than that of a giant bird.

"Set!" she screeched in fury, "Set, you treacherous cur! What are you doing consorting with _him_?"

* * *

Oh dear, apparently Gabriel isn't amongst fans in the ancient Egyptian pantheon... will he wheedle or go all BAMF Angel Of The Lord?

Every time you leave a review, an Update Inspiration Fairy gets its wings!


	13. Chapter 13

Look out! There are llamas!

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen**

"Geb's cock," muttered Set. "Isis, there's a perfectly good reason for his visit."

Gabriel put on his most winning smile. "Isis!" he beamed at her. "Long time no see! Oh, Dad, what is it with women like you who just get more gorgeous as time goes by..."

"Don't you dare attempt to sweet-talk me!" the goddess hissed at him. "You, you, you louse!"

Gabriel looked hurt. "Now that's just mean," he pouted.

"No," she replied with vicious sweetness, "Calling you what you are is not 'mean'. Lying through your teeth to the woman you purport to love is 'mean'. Behaving like an absolute idiot and getting yourself killed is 'mean'. Leaving her worrying, without a word of explanation, without telling her that you were in fact not dead, is 'mean'." She paused, and glared at Crowley. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"Good day, madam," Crowley bowed, "I am Crowley, King of Hell, Adversary of Yahweh, opponent and, unfortunately, reluctant co-traveller of this congenital idiot. I hope that whilst I am here, I may render you a service..."

"Get out of my way!" The irate Isis prodded Crowley smartly in the chest.

"Ow!" he wheezed, "Whatever happened to the enemy of my enemy being my friend?"

"That depends on why the enemy of my enemy is my enemy's enemy," she snapped back, turning her searing anger on Gabriel once more. "Well?" she prompted, "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Look," Gabriel held out his hands in a placating gesture, "I understand why you're upset. Kali is your friend, and I'm sure you were concerned about her..."

"Concerned?" Isis echoed, "Concerned? I was worried sick! We all were! She was devastated, Gavriel! Can you even begin to understand how gutted she was? No, of course you can't, because you are a lying, selfish, cowardly toad!"

"Okay, I get that, I do," Gabriel said, "But I..."

The slap she laid on his face rang out across the river.

"OW!" he yipped in fright, "What was that for?"

"For being a sneaking, thoughtless rat!" the infuriated goddess told him. "You didn't see her when she got here, beside herself, asking for my help to look for you, to find you. We went out, scouring the underworlds for any trace of what might have happened to you..."

"Who's 'we'?" Crowley ventured, curious despite himself.

"Kali and her galpals," Gabriel replied warily. "Some of her sisters, Isis, Hathor, Tawaret, Bast, Aphrodite, Artemis, Hecate, Athena, and not forgetting Tlazotetol, of course. They network."

"Do not mess with The Sisterhood, my friend," Set intoned ominously.

"Isis," Gabriel tried again, "I have been to see Kali, to apologise, and explain. I may be a coward, but I'm still her coward; I'm more or less intact, give or take the odd singed feather, which clearly demonstrates that she has forgiven me."

"Actually, what she said was, she hasn't fully decided yet whether to kill you for your deceit or not," Crowley added helpfully.

"You could try to back me up, here!" Gabriel hissed.

"Sorry, enjoying the show too much," Crowley beamed smugly. "Do excuse me, madam. Pray continue."

"What are you doing here, Gavriel?" Isis asked through clenched teeth.

"Trying to help," he told her, "We have been sent to fetch Jimi, whom I believe has been causing you some difficulties."

"Some difficulties?" Isis sounded incredulously. "He undertook strip-mining in my sacred grove, and you call that _difficulties_?"

"We offer our apologies, and we will of course pay for any damage, or dry cleaning expenses..."

"Well you can start with getting me a new throne!" snapped the man at her side. "I'm telling you, the stains will never come out, to say nothing of the smell!"

"Would you like me to have a look at it, Osiris?" Gabriel asked solicitously. "Or maybe Crowley here could give you an opinion, he has enormous experience with getting all sorts of nasty stuff out of expensive fabric."

"Now just one moment!" protested Crowley, "I'm not here as a housemaid, I'm here in a diplomatic capacity, to fetch my poor little dog home, after your mutt took her rampaging..."

"That was your dog?" breathed Isis, "That, that, that fluffy rodent with a collar, that was yours?"

"She is not a rodent, madam," Crowley asserted snippily, "She is a full-blooded Hellpoodle, Hound of the Pit, terror to uncooperative demons everywhere..."

"She chased _Bast_ up a _tree_!" Isis interrupted him. "Up – a – tree! What do you think you're doing letting a Hellhound run loose? You're just as irresponsible as either of these two idiots!"

"Please," Set said in a reasonable tone, "They are here to try to help. They have apologised, and offered to make good any damage..."

"Stay out of this, you backstabbing traitor!" Isis shouted at him, "You fratricidal maniac!"

Set sighed. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you, I didn't murder Osiris," he told her in a long-suffering tone indicating that this was a conversation that they'd had many times before.

"You as good as murdered him!" she snapped. "You should have stopped him!"

"Well, to be fair, madam, he looks, er, well," Crowley waved a hand in Osiris's direction, "You know, alive. Ish."

"Only because I searched up and down the river bank for all the pieces of him, and worked my father's spell to resurrect him," Isis growled.

Crowley blinked. "What the hell happened?" he asked.

"It's one of those things that we just don't talk about," Gabriel replied, "Because it was pretty traumatic for everybody involved. All you need to know is, the last thing Osiris said beforehand was, 'Brother, hold my drink and watch this!'."

Osiris at least had the grace to look a bit sheepish.

"Look, we'll make good on what's been damaged, we just want to find out where the dogs went," Gabriel said. "Ra will be able to tell us when he gets back, then we'll be out of your hair."

"How many times must we put up with our Field being invaded by this marauding monster?" demanded Osiris.

"He left teethmarks in the shaft of my chariot," complained a falcon-headed god, "It isn't the first time. AND I have NOT forgotten your puerile prank with the wheels made of confectionery, Gavriel."

"That animal leaves a trail of chaos wherever he goes!" Osiris complained. "He chewed on my staff again!"

"Look, cosmically speaking, he won't be around for long," Gabriel reasoned, "He's Waiting. When his human Hunter dies, he'll come to fetch Jimi, and a bunch of his descendants, and the problem will disappear altogether."

"Well, then," Isis pursed her lips, "A solution presents itself. Kill this man, so that he might fetch his rampaging dog, and leave us in peace."

"I couldn't do that," Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I could!" Crowley piped happily, "I would be pleased to do this small service for you, madam, in the cause of inter-pantheon diplomacy. As an earnest of my goodwill in this matter, I would be happy to knock off his brother while I'm at it, just to make sure... oof!"

"We cannot just go killing people because a deity somewhere is a bit pissed, Isis," Gabriel stated firmly as he elbowed Crowley in the ribs.

"That didn't stop you during the time of the Ten Plagues," Osiris growled dangerously. "You killed plenty of our followers because Yahweh was 'a bit pissed'."

"Are you kidding me?" Gabriel sounded disbelieving. "Are you seriously going to drag that up again? What is this, you mummify your grudges as well to make them last forever?"

"I will remind you, _youngster_," Osiris's voice was a low, dangerous rumble, "Our people wrought civilization from the desert and worshipped us when yours were no more than a rabble of goatherders, fit for nothing but enslavement!"

"True, true," nodded Gabriel, bristling at the provocation, "Just remind me again, just exactly how many temples to Osiris are there in use across humanity's world today? How many ordained priestesses of Isis?"

"Don't rise to it, Gavriel," warned Set as the others glared at each other, "This petulant sniping is beneath us all. Brother, Isis, if he wished to show you arrogance, he would not be here at all, yet here he is, offering to make amends."

"Oh, he can make amends, all right," Isis smiled viciously, "I'll see them in chains, and they will spend eternity scrubbing the pawprints off the carpets!"

"And the mess off my throne!" yelled Osiris.

"What? What have I done?" yelped Crowley.

"Us and them, remember?" Gabriel said, stepping backward on the pier. "Don't push this, Isis, these things never end well for anybody..."

"Seize them!" she ordered. A grim-looking contingent that looked to be composed entirely of steroid-abusing linebackers formed up behind Horus, blocking the end of the pier.

"With pleasure," the falcon-headed god managed to get a sneer onto his beak. "Don't worry, I won't cripple them to the point where they cannot scrub the floors."

"Look, the chariot wheels thing was just a joke," Gabriel stepped backwards again, "And be honest, you loved them, you'd never tasted marshmallow before..."

"Horus, don't," Set pleaded, but the other god ignored him, and levelled his spear.

Crowley let out a little yelp, and backed up. "If I have to swim for it I'll be unamused," he hissed at Gabriel, "These shoes won't survive the plunge..."

A large scaly head rose out of the water just below the pier. "What's the leather?" it asked. "Is it something exotic? I say, you look nice and juicy, are you grain-fed?"

"Nobody's going to eat anybody, Sobek," Gabriel snapped at the crocodile god.

"He did kick one of my pets," the reptile god complained.

"It was an accident!" Crowley yipped, "I didn't see it! I thought it was a log!"

"Racist," griped the crocodile. "Go on, Gavriel, he looks ever so tasty. To make it up to me, for that damned dog of yours barking at my poor little hatchlings..."

"This is not how we do things anymore!" protested Gabriel. "What happened to being civilised?"

"Perhaps lodging you in the kennels will civilise you," Osiris smiled unpleasantly, hefting his crook and flail in a way that suggested they were weapons rather than decorations.

There was a sudden burst of searing light, and Gabriel manifested in his battle armour, his wings unfurling threateningly behind him. A flaming sword appeared in his hand, and he gave the Egyptian gods a predatory smile.

"It's been a long time since I used this bad boy," he saluted them with the sword, "But it's like having sex or juggling hedgehogs, you never forget how. I am one of my Father's firstborn, an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven. I have known battle, and I will not submit to you. I will fight if I must, and if I must, many of you will die." He paused dramatically. "This is the part where you're supposed to tell me I'm magnificent when I'm angry," he winked at Isis.

She drew breath, presumably to order her husband, her son and her guards to bring her Gabriel's head on a platter, when a sudden rasping call descended from somewhere above them.

_Piiiiiiigfuckeeeeeeeeeeee-_

Dennis plunged steeply out of the sky, dropping something.

_-eeeeeeEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRR!_

A rotting piece of something that had once been part of the plumbing of a cow plummeted out of the air, knocked off Osiris's crown, and landed on the pier before the Egyptians, where it exploded noisily, wetly, and very very organically, splattering them all with red goo.

"Eeeeeeeeeeek!" shrieked Isis as she was sprayed with high velocity cow bits. "Eeeeeeeeeeek!"

Dennis raised his wings and decelerated, landing hard on Crowley's shoulder like a jet fighter coming in hot to drop heavily onto an aircraft carrier deck. "North, dickhead!" he shrieked, as Crowley staggered under the impact, "North! They went north! Polly wanna get the hell outta here!"

Gabriel gave the Egyptians a cocky salute. "Sent the bill to Danael!" he suggested cheerfully, grabbing hold of Crowley and giving a powerful flap of his already unfurled wings.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Gabriel's landing by a high rocky cliff was as hurried as his takeoff from the Field of Reeds had been.

"Yaaaargh!" went Crowley, as they landed in a heap. "Get off me, you moron!"

"Sheesh," Gabriel griped, standing up and inspecting his armour. "That woman really takes things very personally. I'll have to ask Kali to have a word with her."

"You almost got me killed, you utter idiot!" snapped Crowley. "And you nearly squashed me when you landed on me wearing armour!" He peered down at his suit. "Great, now I have something red and disgusting on me. You can't get bloodstains out of cashmere, you know, it always leaves a mark..." he paused, and sniffed. "Er, can I smell bacon?" He sniffed again. "Gabriel, you have half a rasher of bacon stuck to your vambrace." He picked the piece of meat off the metal. "Why do you have bacon stuck to your armour? Dennis, did you drop any bacon on us?"

"Well, thankfully, Dennis arrived just in time to save the day!" Gabriel grinned. "Where did you find your payload, dude?"

"Midden heap behind a butcher's shop, dickhead," shrugged Dennis. "Tasty stuff."

"So, at the risk of getting an answer I don't really want, where are we now?" Crowley brushed himself off as he looked around. "Funny, this place looks a bit familiar."

"You'll love the food here," Gabriel grinned, "And I can assure you, they are definitely dog people."

"Oh, goody," sighed Crowley in a resigned fashion. Something seemed to occur to him. "Do you actually know how to juggle hedgehogs?"

"Oh, that," Gabriel smiled ruefully. "If I'm honest, they were just prototypes when I did that; Dad added the quills mid-cascade, to drive home the message that He disapproves of the juggling any of His mortal creations."

While Crowley was thinking about that, he felt rather than heard a thumping sort of noise.

_galumph galumph galumph galumph_

A series of impact tremors travelled to them through the ground, increasing in intensity.

_galumph galumph galumph galumph_

"Er," began Crowley, "Do they have earthquakes in this part of the, er, Otherworld?"

_GALUMPH GALUMPH GALUMPH GALUMPH_

Before the King of Hell could ask any further questions about local geological activity, three dogs shot out of a gap in the rock face. They were all enormous: two of them were easily the size of Shetland ponies, but one approached the stature of a Clydesdale. Their tongues were lolling, their eyes were dancing, and their tails were wagging as they headed for the newcomers.

Crowley realised, too late, that he was still holding a piece of bacon.

"Aaaaaaaaaargh!" he squawked as the two pony-sized dogs bowled him over and began to kiss him enthusiastically. "Stop them! Stop them! They're eating meeeeee!"

"They're not eating you, they're loving you!" laughed Gabriel, throwing his arms wide and engaging the largest dog in a happy rassle. "Hey there, girl, how ya doin'?"

"I will pull your feathers for this!" Crowley howled, which just made the two dogs redouble their efforts to love him to death. "Get them off meeeeeeee!"

"Ai! Ai! Ai!" he heard another voice calling, "Kerberos, leave it! Leave it! What have I told you about romping with visitors?"

"It's okay," Gabriel grinned, "I got my armour on. Hey, Crowley, I think you've already met Hades."

* * *

**Leahelisabeth:** And now, for my first trick, I shall juggle a bottle of chocolate syrup, a bowl of whipped cream, and Sam Winchester!

_Denizens applaud_

**Sam:** What? No, hang on, don't be ridiculous, I'm too big for you to juggle! I'm too big for anybody to juggle!

**Leahelisabeth (smiling):** Maybe, but think of the fun I can have trying...

_Screaming and slurping noises ensue; Denizens give her full points for trying, and very nice posture_

Yes, folks, Reviews are the Unexpectedly Amusing Episodes Of Juggling On The Plastic Drop Sheet Of Life!


	14. Chapter 14

Stewie's back! Goooooo bunny!

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

"Greetings, Gabriel," the tall man in the formal tunic clasped forearms with the archangel and smiled. "Kerberos, leave it!"

"Yo, Hades," Gabriel grinned, reaching up to pat the gigantic dog, "Don't mind her, she's just showing me how much she missed me! Aint ya, girl?" Kerberos wagged her tail, and leaned down to give Gabriel one last loving lick.

"We were so pleased to hear that your Father had called you back," the god of the Underworld went on, "Persephone was worried for Kali. In fact, you may be in for something of a tongue-lashing on the topic..."

"I've been to see Madam Hot Stuff, and she's forgiven me," Gabriel forestalled him.

"That is just as well," confided Hades, "Although you may get something of a lecture, nonetheless."

"I almost got more than a lecture from Isis," Gabriel gestured at his armour, "I thought we were going to have a serious diplomatic incident there for a moment..."

"We're having one right now!" yelped Crowley, as he staggered to his feet with the two smaller pups still romping around him, expressing their love, "Call your bloody dogs off!" He scowled and brushed himself down. With a squawk, Dennis bounced awkwardly into the air, and landed on his shoulder. Crowley sighed.

"Allow me to introduce my nephew..." began Gabriel.

"The demon, or the bird?" asked Hades politely.

"Oi!" yapped Crowley.

"Heh heh, pigfucker," chortled Dennis, bobbing his head in amusement. "Polly wannan uncle!"

"Be fair, Crowley," shrugged Gabriel, "One of my kids is a serpent, one is a wolf, one is an eight-legged horse, so it's a reasonable question. They understand complicated family trees, and Daddy Issues, here."

"When you've been eaten and regurgitated by your own father, you learn not to make assumptions," nodded Hades. "I don't know how many times I said to Lucifer, 'Go and make peace with your brother Michael, because one day, your father may eat him, and he'll be gone, and it will be too late'."

"He shared the baklava that Persephone sent him with Michael, in The Cage," Gabriel informed his friend, "So you can tell her that she had a hand in starting the process."

"That will please her enormously. But we have met before, have we not, King Crowley?" Hades grasped Crowley's forearm, not seeming to mind that his sleeve was soaked with doggy dribble."

"You have?" Gabriel's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Yes, unfortunately," grumbled Crowley, "And the canine welcome was just as uncouth."

"You are welcome in my house," Hades led the way to his residence, "Seffy will be glad to see you again, Gabriel, and I look forward to an update on how Kerberos's litter are doing, Your Majesty."

"Shouldn't we be asking about the dogs?" Crowley muttered to the angel.

"We will," Gabriel assured him, "But we have to eat first."

"I thought we were on an urgent mission!" snapped the King of Hell.

"We are," Gabriel replied, "But, well, first, we gotta eat. It's just a Greek thing, okay? You visit, you gotta eat. Even if you're on an important mission, you talk about it over food. Persephone won't let us leave until we're stuffed to the point of bursting. It's just the way they do things here. If the cosmos were collapsing, Zeus would be like 'Brothers and sisters of Olympus, we must act to prevent this immediately! Just as soon as we've had a couple of courses of seafood, a meat snack, and pastries with the coffee'. It's just how they roll."

"Polly wanna pastry!" enthused Dennis, flapping his wings and whacking Crowley about the head and shoulders.

"Ow! Ow! Stop it, you bird-brained... bird!" he protested, trudging along in a resigned fashion.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Polly wanna kourabiethe!" enthused Dennis, as their hostess put another shortbread cookie in front of the vulture. Persephone smiled to see her guests enjoying the sweets.

"Astonishingly, I must agree with Dennis," nodded Crowley, somewhat cheered by the proffering of delicious pastries and good coffee, "These are wonderful, madam, you have a true talent. Eeeeeep!" He let out a little squeak as he felt something damp on his leg; one of the dogs had worked its muzzle into his lap, and was looking up at the cookie he held with big brown eyes. "Stop it! Shoo! Shoo!"

"Ohhhhh, ditch this guy and marry me," crooned Gabriel around a mouthful of baklava, "My family's just as screwed up as yours, so you'll feel right at home."

Persephone laughed. "You should've seen the fuss my mother made when I eloped with Hades," she told them, "She would have an absolute fit if I left for a different pantheon altogether! Besides which," her expression turned stern, "What sort of a friend would I be if I did that to Kali? After the heartache you put her through. You're lucky you're still in one piece, after you just showed up like that. Isis is not at all happy with you, Taz still thinks you should be thrown from the highest pyramid, and Artemis wants to use you for target practice."

"You know about our, er, travels, already?" asked Crowley.

"The Sisterhood," sighed Gabriel. "Their network runs faster than the speed of outrage. It defies Einsteinian physics."

"Athena considered training her owl to assail you," Persephone added. "Given her patronage of warriors, and the fact that your Waiting dog once pulled out some of its tail feathers, I would not take the threat lightly."

"Great," griped Gabriel, "Not content just to call me a pig, she wants to play Angry Birds for real."

"Heh heh, pig...lover," Dennis rasped, suddenly capable of minding his language when he didn't want to offend the person who kept putting sweet treats in front of him. "Polly wanna interesting conversation! And some baklava."

"So, just how much grovelling do I have to do, exactly?" whined Gabriel. "It would be a whole lot more efficient if we just got you and your galpals all together, then I can grovel to all of you at once. You can throw your drinks in my face, slap me, and, and, and, owl me, and tell me what a selfish thoughtless asshole I am, then let me know when total grovellage has reached satisfactory levels."

"I'm sure that Kali will notify you when you have made it up to her," Persephone waved a hand dismissively.

"Heh heh, Richard cranium," chortled Dennis over his sweets.

"Now tell me about your Infernal Pack," Hades enthused, turning to Crowley, "I'd have picked Ippeas as the Alpha, he was certainly biggest. Did you convince your Dominican to train them?"

"Oh yes," Crowley lapsed into glumness again, "What a happy, playful bunch they were, with teeny weeny cute little eyes, and teeny weeny cute little ears, and teeny weeny cute little Hellhound puppy teeth that ruined a perfectly good suit. Dominican Dean renamed the biggest one Chevy, and got them fetching Damned souls. Of course, he used me as a training aid, and _that_ suit will never perform surgery again, either..."

"In fact, it's one of that litter that brings us to see you," Gabriel cut in, "Not that a few rounds of dolmades and pastries aren't reason enough."

"I was wondering what the child of Yahweh's Adversary was doing travelling with one of His firstborn," admitted Persephone. Crowley squirmed a little to have his familial connection with Lucifer recognised.

"We're on a mission from dog," stated Gabriel, "Or more accurately, after dog. We got a Waiting soul and a full-blood Hellhound gone visiting, and we're trying to catch up with them. That's how we almost ended up going mediaeval on the Field of Reeds..."

"You don't mean Belisario, do you?" interrupted Hades, smiling broadly.

"Yes! Yes! That's him!" confirmed Crowley, pushing one of the huge pups' nose away as it gave up on emotional blackmail and went for distraction tactics by shoving its tongue into his ear. "Yeeeeek! He was Belisario, aka Belisarius, Alpha Hound of the Infernal Pack, before that thieving Winchester bastard summoned him away, abducted him and turned him into a Hunter's dog, the miserable arsehole. Stop tasting me!" He dropped a bit of almond pastry crust, and the dog followed it.

"Has he been here?" asked Gabriel.

"Yes, he has," replied Hades. "Very recently. I do like to receive visits from Kerberos's whelps. We don't lose interest in them just because they've left the kennel. I remember him when he was born, a tiny little ball of fluff, the very image of himself..."

"Image of himself?" echoed Gabriel, confused.

"Jimi Senior is his own great-grandfather," sighed Crowley, "The breeding of supernatural dogs is very complicated. I've seen his pedigree. It would've made M.C. Escher dizzy."

"Very precocious, too," Hades went on, sounding as proud as the breeder of any prize-winning animal, "Weaned himself onto Damned souls when his eyes were barely open..."

"Well, that precocious little ball of fluff is stampeding through the pantheons, causing mayhem and uproar," griped Crowley, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing fruitlessly at the drool marks on his suit, "And worst of all, he's taken my poor bewildered little Gedda with him..."

"One of his grand-whelps?" asked Hades. "One of Kerberos's last litter, the smallest bitch-pup? I thought I recognised her."

"Yes! That's her!" Crowley confirmed, "My dear little Gedda! Oh, my poor lost little doggy."

"Oh, that's a Nordic name," smiled Persephone, "Did you name her for someone in your uncle's Aesir family?"

"Er, it's short for Getoutofit," Crowley explained, "But she's been led astray by that marauding monster, corrupted by that incorrigible idiot, drawn into peril by that rampaging reprobate..."

"She's been cuddled and fed treats by half a dozen other pantheons and made herself right at home wherever she goes," Gabriel rolled his eyes at Crowley's melodramatics. "But we really do need to fetch them; Jimi should be Waiting for his Hunter, and a Hellhound on the loose, even one as adorable as Gedda, has already caused a stir that will have Danael writing curt notes for a fortnight, and poor Denariel the Guardian of Companions writing scrolls of apology. Then Castiel will have to countersign for any cleaning expenses."

"Are they still here?" asked Crowley anxiously.

"I'm afraid not," Hades smiled, "They romped around with Kerberos and the pups, and I'm afraid I did indulge them a bit..."

"They stole the gyros off the spit," Persephone reminded him, "And Gedda made herself right at home in a tray of galaktobouriko – ate half of it, then fell asleep."

"Where did they go?" demanded Crowley.

"I cannot say," Hades told them regretfully. "It's not the first time Belisario, your Jimi Senior, has come to visit. He comes, then he leaves."

"Just like his Hunter," griped Crowley, as Gabriel elbowed him viciously and Dennis chortled.

"However, I could summon the Sibyl, and ask her," Hades suggested.

Persephone let out a groan. "You know she mainly does gossip columns and celebrity watching these days," she complained, "For the _Aegean Oracle_. If you want to get anything useful out of her, you have to wade through pages and pages of who's wearing what, who's fatter than whom, and who's appeared where as a bird to trying to impregnate which unsuspecting virgin with twins. And she can't even speak plain Greek."

"Well, as an oracle, she's supposed to speak in convoluted riddles and complicated symbolism," Hades pointed out.

"It's got nothing to do with riddles," humphed Persephone. She turned to her visitors. "The thing about her living in a bottle? It's a figure of speech. There are some days she's had so much to drink, she should slosh when she walks. Look, she's nice enough, and great fun at a dinner party, she's such a terrible gossip, but the minute she opens her mouth and starts to describe what she's 'seeing', well, it's all English to me."

"Nonetheless, she is our best lead," Hades reminded his wife, "So I shall send for her." He gestured to a servant, who left, presumably to call for the presence of the obtuse oracle. "Meanwhile," he smiled widely, "Tell me, Gabriel, when was the last time you hit the water?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

As the speedboat tore past on the Styx once more, Crowley grudgingly returned the wave from the two water-skiers whizzing along behind it. Grumbling to himself, he sauntered along the bank until he found the ferry pulled up out of the water. A glum-looking figure sat, wrapped in a dark cloak, glaring out over the river.

"I suppose they'll throw your timetable out by at least an hour with this aquatic idiocy," commiserated Crowley, sitting down. He took out a flask, took a drink, and passed it over.

"I'll be lucky if I get away with just that," sighed Charon, taking the flask with a small nod of thanks. "I'll have to clear the backlog before I can get back on track. I just can't risk being swamped again. It was chaos last time. The Blessed Dead never think to ask their relatives to dress them in lifejackets for the journey, that's for sure." He passed the flask back. "So, how's tricks?"

"My dog's been abducted by her grandfather, Hell's Hierarchy want to kill me, and now I have a posse of Egyptian gods who'd cheerfully feed me to their crocodiles," sighed Crowley. "And to cap it all off, I've been adopted by one of Kali's vultures, who thinks he's a parrot."

"Pigfucker," rasped Dennis amiably by way of greeting.

"How do," Charon nodded to the bird. "So, business as usual, then," he shrugged. "Still, it's a mark of favour that your aunt let one of her sacred vultures leave with you, so she must hold you in high regard..."

"My what?" Crowley's eyes bugged.

"Your aunt," repeated Charon. "Your Aunt Kali. She is, you know, as consort of your Uncle Loki. Or Gabriel now, heh heh, and didn't he ruffle some feathers when that came out..."

"Is there anybody in a pantheon anywhere who doesn't know about this?" asked Crowley sourly. "I thought it was Kali's female friends who did the networking!"

"It's all over the glossies," Charon told him, reaching into the beached ferry to pull out a dog-eared magazine. The cover bore a headline in huge block text:

**HE'S BACK – AND THEY'RE BACK TOGETHER!**

Crowley snatched the publication. "What the... 'Exclusive to the _Aegean Oracle_, via The Sibyl'," he read, "And this - 'The Dancing Lady of Death reunited with her Trickster True-Love – we reveal the amazing angelic twist to their raunchy reunion!'." He riffled through a few pages. "What's this? 'Isis Vows Revenge On Absent Angel – I'll Feed Him To The Crocodiles, Threatens Beauty Of Egypt'." He turned a few more pages. " 'He's My Boy – Lucifer Acknowledges Successor'... 'Royal Romp With The King Of Hell: Sultry Sigrun Tells All!..." he dropped the magazine as though it had bitten him.

"So, she's your aunt," repeated Charon, with a grin.

"What the hell is this?" demanded Crowley, horrified, as Dennis fluttered to the ground and began to peck through the pages.

"It's the Sybil," Charon explained, as Dennis ruffled through the offending publication. "She's worked out that nobody really wants to know what's going to happen at some non-specific time, to some non-specific person, at some non-specific place; they want to know the juicy stuff that's happening to celebrities right now. People just love gossip; that doesn't stop once they're dead. And once you're dead, gods and goddesses are your celebrities. She's syndicated. They've got sources everywhere." He gestured to the magazine. "There's a very good recipe for roast pork in there, from your Great-Aunt Freya, and an article on beast-whispering from your Aunt Hel..."

"OoooOOOOoooh," Dennis leered, peering at one of the pages. "Pigfucker! Dangling from the torch sconces? Polly wanna watch!"

Crowley let out a sad little noise. "This was just supposed to be a diplomatic mission to find my dog," he sighed, "It was never supposed to include being molested by vixenous vikings, being assailed by a foul-mouthed fowl, having to dodge an avalanche of severed heads, awkward family reunions, having my suit ruined, being threatened with transformation into crocodile poo, or discovering that I'm fodder for a trashy magazine!" He drooped. "I suppose Xochi's chocolate beer was good, and the roast duck was delicious... you don't think that'll get written up as some tawdry encounter?"

"Probably," said Charon philosophically, "But don't take it too seriously. The_ Oracle_ is pretty tame, really. It's _Playgoddess_ or _Metropolitan_ you have to watch out for: they have centrefolds, and their seers have all been trained in anatomical drawing."

"Lucifer's bum," humphed Crowley.

Charon clapped him on the shoulder, and passed across his dog-eared roll-up. "We could go and have some lunch in Rome while these morons tire themselves out," he suggested, "Good food, good wine, voluptuous women..."

"Probably best we don't," Crowley replied mournfully, taking a long drag on the smoke and watching the water-skiers make another pass. Gabriel unfurled his wings, and rose into the air, his own version of paragliding. "It'd be splashed all over a cover somewhere as our Roman Holiday Man-Date, and I'm afraid that right now I just couldn't cope with that."

* * *

Poor Crowley - when trashy tabloids hit Hell, his afterlife will become even more uncomfortable...

You can find out all about Kerberos's puppies going off to be trained as Hellhounds by Dean in 'In Dog We Trust', including Crowley's suit-wrenching introduction to the little doggy who would adopt him.

A number of years ago, there was a jumps racehorse Down Here called Richard Cranium; how that one ever got approved beggars belief. Same goes for Far Call; surely these people should say these names out loud before they approve them? Or at least do a quick net search – that way, Blue Waffle might never have got through. They make Waikikamukau look positively tame.

I think Stewie can see the finish line on this one, so cheer him on with a review, because Reviews are the Delicious Greek Pastries To Snack On While You Tut With Disapproval Over The Glossy Magazines Of Life!


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

"And these," Persephone indicated the plate of 'dolmades' using seaweed instead of vine leaves, "Are something that Sojobo showed me. He's very fond of them. So is Poseidon, when he comes to visit. And these," she pointed to a plate of buttery flat bread, "Are Chitaguptra's recipe. Lord Iblis of Jahannam enjoys them with ham and cheese."

"Well, he would be, wouldn't he?" Crowley reasoned. "Being the boss of Islamic Hell, it's pretty much his duty. We have to set the standard; lead by example, and all that. Their ifrits swap recipes with our fiends too, apparently. They're very fond of the pork and sage sausages, I'm told." He sampled a piece of the roti. "Mmmmm. Very nice. Chitaguptra used to send these to Lucifer – we'd shove them under the door into the Cage, of course, but the smell was so appetising." He took another morsel. "You know, up until quite recently, I had no idea that you had such a... social scene. Across pantheons, I mean."

"Well, it ends up being unavoidable, really," she told him, "What with all being worshipped by the same species."

"It's a pity that somebody doesn't tell them about it," Crowley noted, "Because they do seem to spend a lot of time and effort arguing with each other about which lot of you are superior to all the rest. No, come to think of it, if this got out, it could mean a terrible drop-off in my business – a sudden outbreak of religious tolerance and accommodation would be disastrous for Hell's bottom line."

"Iblis wouldn't thank you," Persephone added, "He says that, sometimes, when the headaches of dealing with all the administrative details and the schemings of the djinn Nobility are getting too much, spending a few hours watching suicide bombers getting their just desserts is all that keeps him from throwing his hands up, abdicating, and retiring to a volcano somewhere to grow garnets and topaz."

"I can sympathise entirely," sighed Crowley. "Fear not, your secret will be safe with me, madam."

"What secret?" asked Gabriel eagerly, coming into the room with Hades. "Is it something juicy?"

"Not really," Crowley shrugged. "Besides which, given humanity's track record, I suspect that if all of you showed up hand in hand on Oprah to talk about your plans for the end of year corporate function, nobody would believe it."

"I suggest you don't use the s-word in front of the Sibyl," cautioned Hades, "She has grist enough for her mill already."

Shortly after that, a visitor was shown in, a woman with hair, clothing, and a personality that could best be described as 'extravagant'. She put Crowley in mind of a composite of Phyllis Diller, Liberace and Rupert Murdoch.

"Crowley, this is the Sybil," Persephone introduced them, "Our seer, oracle and prophetess."

"Your Majesty," the Sybil bowed, expertly not spilling any of her wine, "A great pleasure! And not just to me, I understand." She smiled archly. "Sigrun was most effusive in her descriptions. I don't suppose you'd consider posing for one of our artists?"

"And this is Loki, who is Gabriel," Crowley let out a small squeak of indignation as Persephone continued.

I do so love a family reunion," the Sibyl smiled again, "Almost as much as I love an exclusive interview, so if I could ask you a couple of questions – have any of your parents met your paramour?..."

"Sibyl, we have summoned you here to ask _you_ questions," Hades tried very hard not to roll his eyes. "You are an oracle. People ask you questions, you consult your visions, use your powers of divination, and answer them. We have been over this before."

"Oh, yes," the Sibyl waved a hand airily, turning it into a gesture to indicate to a servant that she would like her wine goblet refilled, "But it's so much more efficient if I can give people what they want to know before they even ask."

"You didn't have to go splashing it all over a magazine," complained Crowley reproachfully.

"But darling, it's a question of distribution," she smiled at him. "Look, people want to know this sort of thing. Do you have any idea how inconvenient it is to have a constant parade of people, gods and the Blessed Dead and everyone else in between, in and out of my cave, all day, asking the same things over and over again? They never wipe their feet, they help themselves to my wine, they complain about having to queue, well, hello, you're the ones who are stampeding in here and demanding to know who's doing what with whom! In fact," she peered keenly at Crowley, "We've had a couple of stories from your realm, King Crowley – the one about cheating at an Imp Show, very juicy – and if you'd consider a deal on e-content..."

"He'd love to make a deal!" chirped Gabriel brightly, "He was the King of the Crossroads before he rose to power, they called him The Dealmeister!"

"Really?" asked the Sibyl, all attention.

"No I don't! No they didn't!" yelped Crowley. "Madam, I have no wish to see your brand of prurience peddled in Perdition! Believe me, the place is unpleasant enough already..."

"Hmmmm, yesssss," she mused, "The whole 'It's Lonely At The Top' angle. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown. Do you have a crown?"

"No!" snapped Crowley. "There's no crown, there's no throne, there's no robes of state. I can't even keep my suits from being ruined! There's just my bidet, and Gedda likes to sleep in that."

"Ah yes, the solace to be found in the unconditional devotion of pets," she nodded, looking at Dennis. "Is that a vulture sitting on your shoulder?"

"It's none of your business!" Crowley snapped, thoroughly miffed at her nosiness.

"It is, it's a vulture! What are you doing with a vulture on your shoulder?" she persisted.

"That's Dennis," Crowley said shortly. "He's a parrot."

"Um, pieces of eight?" offered Dennis.

"He looks a bit big to be a parrot," commented the Sybil doubtfully.

"He was raised by emus," Crowley replied.

"Gday, Gday, who's a pretty bloke?" said Dennis.

"Aren't male parrots usually quite colourful?" pressed the oracle.

"He's a Norwegian Grey," Crowley told her, "They don't need to be colourful, on account of the dark arctic winter."

"Polly wanna dried herring?" Dennis rasped.

"But his head's bald!" she noted.

"He was mauled by a polar bear as a fledgling and left scarred," Crowley shot back, "Don't be so insensitive!"

The Sybil looked nonplussed. "Raised by emus in Norway? I didn't know there were emus in Norway."

"Great bloody flocks of them," confirmed Crowley. "Some days you have to beat them off with a stick. What do you think the polar bears eat when they can't get seals or Norwegians?"

The Sybil considered that. "Feelgood stories about animal rescues always go down well," she nodded to herself, "Two lonely souls find companionship, a demon and his bird. Have you considered baldness therapy for the two of you?"

Hades pinched the bridge of his nose, obviously fighting to remain patient, as Crowley and Dennis both squawked in outrage. "Sybil, you are not here to get an exclusive for your next edition, you are here to help Gabriel and Crowley work out where their dogs have gone."

"Oh, a lost dog story!" the Sibyl enthused. "They are always popular!"

"Not in the Field of Reeds, they're not," muttered Gabriel. "Look, we'd just like you to use your divination to tell us where they went. Jimi Senior, a Waiting soul who was once a Hellhound, and his descendant Gedda, Hell's most feared Hellpoodle – well, I think she's Hell's only Hellpoodle – have gone wandering, and we have to find them."

"Why don't I hold this for you," Persephone smiled sweetly and deftly removed the goblet from the Sibyl's hand, "So you can concentrate on your divination?"

The flamboyant figure sighed dramatically, and seated herself on a couch. "Very well," she agreed, arranging her voluminous clothing fastidiously. "I shall peer across the vastness of space and time and reality, commune with the spirits of unknown dimensions, wrest from the cosmos its very secrets of..."

"Just find out where they went, Sibyl," Hades instructed.

"You have no appreciation of showmanship," the Sibyl complained. "People expect a certain... idiom when they come to consult an oracle."

"Our guests expect an answer sometime this century," Persephone added.

With a final glare, the Sibyl relaxed into the couch and hummed to herself.

"If she goes 'Om' I reserve the right to slap her," asserted Crowley snippily.

"This may take a little while," Hades informed them, "She actually does have to roam across space and time and reality, and home in on a particular incident. I've heard it described as watching a four-dimensional sea for a particular small boat – we can prompt her to help her pinpoint the exact location, as it were."

The Sibyl opened her eyes, which had rolled up to show the whites.

"Family Feud – Morningstar Leads Revolt Against His Father. 'I'm Heartbroken', Says Big Brother..."

"Er, I'm afraid that these days, she does tend to prophesy in headlines," Persephone explained.

"Fast forward, Sibyl," instructed Gabriel.

"Let My People Go! Yahweh and Osiris Lock Horns Over Followers. Exclusive!"

"Getting there," nodded Gabriel, "A bit further..."

"Ra's Vacation Revelation – Sun God Parties As Jericho Falls! 'Hurrah for the One God! He Is The Fun God!' Declares Sunboat's Pilot As He Enjoys First Ever Holiday!"

"A bit further," Crowley sighed.

"It's A Boy! Knit This Cuddly Toy Donkey, Just Like Yeshua's!"

"Quite a lot further, actually," the King of Hell grumbled. "Say, about two thousand years."

The Sibyl hummed again.

"New King On The Block – Meet Crowley, And See His Amazing Remodelling Of Hell!"

"What?" yipped said King of Hell.

"Sonofabitch! The Righteous Man With A Wrongteous Mouth."

"Sounds like we're just about there," encouraged Gabriel.

"Wham Bam Here Comes Sam! Boy King Takes The Red Throne!"

"No, no, wrong reality," prompted Gabriel, "You had it right to start with."

"A-Hunting We Will Go – The Righteous Man Summons Hell's Best And Brightest!"

"Now we're on track!" Gabriel grinned. "A bit further, Sibyl!"

"It's A Boy! Meet Roverto Ioannes - We Get The First Peek At Aphrodite's Adorable Addition!"

"And a bit further."

"Righteous Man In Righteous Anger! No Boy Of Mine Is Dating A Werewolf!"

"What the...?" Crowley's eyes bugged.

"I think you've overshot the mark," Gabriel chortled. "Back up some. No, hang on, wait, what happens after that?"

"Doggone it, Dad! Son Of The Righteous Man Pops The Question!"

"You're kidding!" Gabriel laughed. "Dean will have fit!"

"Double Trouble! Righteous Granddad Romps With Adorable Twins!"

"Oh, Dad," Gabriel wheezed, "That is going to be so hilarious..."

"Perhaps we could get back to the matter at hand?" sighed Crowley, "Back a bit, before Daddy Dean gets grumpy about his offspring's social activities."

The Sibyl hummed. "I Love To Go A-Wandering – Heaven's First Hellhound Returns To Visit His First Kennel. Always Welcome Here, Says Hades."

"That's it! That's it!" Gabriel exclaimed, "Just a bit further!"

"Footloose And Fancy Free – Big Jimi's Big Adventure! Owl Traumatised – Athena Not Impressed!"

"Nearly there," encouraged the Archangel.

"All Hellcreatures Great And Small – Jimi And His Delightful Descendent – Peripatetic Pooches, Or Doggy Destroyers?"

"That's it!" Gabriel told her, "That's them! Where did they go, after they visited here?"

"Marvellous Fun, Says Thor... Lovely Manners, Says Buddha... Happy Souls, Says Kali... Would Love To Adopt Them Both, Says Xolotl... A Menace To Society, Claims Isis... Happy Reunion With Proud Mother Kerberos..."

"What next? What next?" pressed Crowley anxiously, "Where did they go?"

The Sibyl frowned in her trance. "Shcshcshcshcshcshcshcshcshcsh," she hissed.

"What the hell does that mean?" Crowley yipped.

"It's interference," Hades explained.

"We apologise for this break in transmission," the oracle announced in a pleasant voice.

"Cosmic static," Gabriel growled in an exasperated voice, "Like losing the tuning to a channel, I guess. Come on, Sibyl, find the signal...

"We are experiencing technical difficulties due to prevailing atmospheric conditions," she went on in the voice that was no doubt supposed to be soothing and explaining, but was in fact infuriating in its patient serenity.

"Atmospheric conditions?" echoed Crowley incredulously. "What atmospheric conditions? Where did the damned dogs go, you stupid bint?"

"Our engineers tell us that the current spike in stratospheric radiation being experienced due to the appearance of the new star is interfering with satellite communications," the Sibyl's voice went on, "All electronic systems are expected to be affected by this phenomenon, and citizens are advised to avoid travel and outdoor activity, or proximity to conductive electronic equivalent, for the next two hours. Parents should avoid taking neonates outdoors. However, we are looking forward to receiving some stunning new pictures from the recent launch, once communications are re-established..."

Gabriel gasped, and grabbed Crowley's sleeve. "Come on!" he said urgently, "We gotta go!"

"What?" Crowley blinked in bemusement. "Where?"

"There!" Gabriel replied. "Thanks for the hospitality, Hades and Seffy, please thank the Sibyl for us, but we gotta go whoosh, and right now..."

"Where are we going?" demanded Crowley, as Dennis grabbed one last pastry and flitted to his shoulder. "She hasn't told us where they are!"

"Yes she has!" Gabriel countered, "She's told us exactly where they are, and I bet I know what they'll be doing. This is important, Crowley! Hang on, Dennis!"

He unfurled his wings, and they gave a thunderous flap.

* * *

**Darla:** And now, for my amazing trick, I will pull a Dean out of a hat!

_Denizens go 'Ooooooooh!' in awe_

**Dean:** That's ridiculous. I won't fit in a hat.

**Darla:** All right, I will pull a Dean out of a pair of jeans, using nothing but a jar of honey and a pair of fluffy handcuffs!

**Dean:** Eeeeeeek!

_Denizens cheer wildly; Dean locks himself in the Impala and refuses to come out. Denizens pout._

Gasp! Where could the doggies be off to? Let's find out! Reviews are the Adorable Knitted Cuddly Toys On The Sofa Of Life!


	16. Chapter 16

Gaaaaah! Gaaaaaaaah! I'm on leave, and Real Life STILL has its teeth in my leg! Seriously, I have to start doing something less time consuming to make a living. I wonder if I could set up a speed kitchen in the garage? Or maybe start a pyramid scheme scam of some sort?

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

Mirri was in her travel module, halfway between the laboratory and the archaeology dig where her broodhusband-to-be had taken up his post-doctoral position, when the activator coughed and then spluttered to a groaning halt. She sighed; it had done that a few times in the last season. After all, it was ageing machinery, which was why she had been able to afford it in the first place. Like students across the cosmos, she had to live within her meagre means.

She shot a glance back at her young in the travel pod in the rear seat, and smiled. Her brooddaughter, unplanned and unexpected but beloved nonetheless (and scientifically very interesting; she'd made some welcome extra money from the interviews with _Persons_ and _All Right!_) was a good pupa, hardly ever wiggled at all, and had enabled her to get on with her research, although now she was a broodmother she'd changed her field of study from the biology of bipeds of the Gaargu System's third planet to Froodian biology, since intergalactic fieldwork really was not a desirable option anymore. She didn't regret it, though – it had meant that she had been able to transfer to the same institute as her betrothed, which had been convenient. It also meant that she could claim the fuel charge for a surprise visit to his dig site as an educational expense: all she had to do was take a couple of journals, or an instrument or two, deemed necessary to his work, with her (her professor was a broodfather himself, with an understanding of how difficult studenthood could be for a young couple just getting established professionally).

With a last check on the pupa, Mirri lifted the service panel on the activator to see if there was anything obvious that she could fix, but there wasn't any immediately apparent cause for the breakdown. Swearing under her breath, she took out her compad. To her extreme annoyance, the service seemed to be down on that, too.

She was grumbling to herself when she heard the warning of an imminent radiation event break into the music she'd been listening to. She'd been watching reportage of the appearance of the new star with the same interest as the rest of her Faculty (and had endured some good-natured teasing about the fact that it had first appeared the night she'd laid her brooddaughter). It had brought a welcome boost of interest and funding to the Physics school, where she had a couple of friends in the Astronomy department, especially now they were getting telescope time on the new satellite. But nobody had really been too concerned about the consequent possibility of stellar radiation incidents. They occurred, from time to time, what with Planet Frood orbiting a binary star in a particularly active part of the galaxy, but Froodians had evolved in that environment: the exoskeleton of a Froodian was protection enough against the occasional solar or stellar flare.

Neonates, however, were another matter…

She looked around anxiously. There was no other traffic on the rough roadway that cut through the inhospitable plain that lay flat and desolate between the volcanic outcrops and sedimentary deposits. She took her daughter out of the travel pod, and held her close, fighting the rising panic and trying to work out what to do to protect her young. She could start running for the nearest rock face, and hope to find a cave perhaps, she told herself, even as the rational scientist within knew that she'd never make it in time, but she couldn't just _stand_ there, she had to do _something_…

Tears starting in her eyes, her floopers trembling, she looked around for what seemed like the closest (at or at least, the least distant) upthrust of dark rock, and, whispering apologies to her helpless offspring, knowing it was futile, began to run.

She'd barely gotten to her utterly inadequate top speed when there was a sudden strange noise behind her. She faltered, loathe to slow down, and turned to see what was behind her.

Mirri let out a little screech of fright.

It was an animal, a peculiar four-legged animal, and in her desperate state it took her a few moments to recall that she had seen such animals in the Gaargu system, as companions to the third planet's bipeds, in much the way fleebs were kept as pets or service animals on her own planet. It was big, and black, covered with the peculiar fur common to that system's warm-blooded animals, but its eyes glowed fiery red, and it made an urgent _woof-woof_ sound as it approached her at a dead run. A small comet of white smoke whizzed around the creature, and astonishingly resolved into another four-leg furred fleeb, a very small one, somehow running alongside the large black one, keeping pace, as they headed straight for her.

The larger animal leaped for her, and contrived to snatch her brooddaughter's wrappings in its mouth, then accelerated as no mortal animal should be able to do; moving faster than a top-of-the-range travel module could, it headed for the rocky outcrop.

She drew breath to scream, but didn't get the chance: there was a booming _flap-flap_ noise behind her, then she was suddenly grabbed from behind and whisked up into the air, to be borne aloft by some unseen entity that propelled her at high speed in the direction the fur-fleeb had taken. Stunned by the unbelievable turn of events, she barely took in the snatches of conversation that weren't torn away by the wind of their flight.

" the hell do you think you're doing, you flying fuck-knuckle?!"

"Shut up and hang on! Dennis, stop that!"

"Pigfucker! Pigfucker! Polly wanna slow down!"

"Look, pull your wings in, you're creating drag!"

"It's all right for you, dickhead, you got six of 'em. I'm supposed to soar gently and majestically on thermals, not break the sound barrier, Pigfucker! _Squaaaaaark!_"

"Oh, no! Look, you frightened Dennis! Look what he's done to my jacket!"

"If you two don't knock it off, I swear I'll drop you both!"

"What exactly are we… look! Look! It's them! It's Gedda! Where's that traitorous turncoat leading her now?"

"To safety, Your Majesty! See that shimmering up in the air?"

"The sort of hazy thing, coming down from up high?"

"That's the bunny! It's stellar radiation!"

"Well, why the hell do I care about a bit of starlight? I'm a demon, for fuck's sake."

"But your meatsuit was human – it'll make all your hair fall out!"

"AAAAAAAAARGH! Fly, you fool!"

"Heh heh heh, dickhead."

"Laugh it up, thermal boy, it'll affect feathers too!"

"PigFUCKER!"

"Hold on, I'm gonna hit the afterburners – please stow your tray table upright, and assume the crash position!"

"What does that mean, dickhead?"

"It means bend over and kiss your arse goodbyeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEE…"

The unseen aviator put on a sudden burst of speed that made Mirri's eyes water. Blinking against the rush of air, she let out a little gasp as she saw the large black fur-fleeb headed for the sheer rock wall, leaving swirling contrails of dust in its wake. She wanted to shout a warning, but as she watched, the animal didn't even slow down; if anything, it put its head down and went even faster, and _disappeared_ right into the cliff face…

Whatever had hold of her was apparently intent on doing the same thing.

As the dark, jagged and above all EXTREMELY SOLID mass approached, she finally found her voice, and joined in the desperate yodeling of terror coming from two other voices behind her.

"AaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAA _AAAAAAAAAA_ **AAAAAAAAA** _**GLORBFUCKERRRRRRRRR!**_"

Then everything went black.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

It could've been a few seconds, a few minutes or a few hours later that Mirri finally opened her eyes, and let out a little shriek. She was standing in a large cave, and she wasn't alone.

"We're about a quarter of a klack deep," a strange being, who resembled a Gaarguan biped but had six large golden wings sprouting from his back, informed her. "Enough rock between us and out there to keep anything safe. Even his hair. Well, what's left of it."

"Fuck off, Feathers," said the other biped, who was cuddling the smaller fur-fleeb with what could only be described as relief washing off it. Him, she realized. "Oh, you naughty naughty girl," he crooned to the little fluffy animal as it wagged its tail and kissed his nose, "Daddy has been so worried about you! Yes he has! My poor little Gedda, being dragged all over the place by that irresponsible poster child for stupidity…"

Something nudged at her leg. The large fur-fleeb whuffed gently, offering her brooddaughter to her. She bent down and dazedly took her young from the animal.

"Who… who…" she stuttered, looking from one other occupant of the cave to the next. "What… who… what's going on?" She peered hard at the winged biped. "Do I know you from somewhere?" she asked hesitantly.

"Give the lady a cigar!" the being rolled his eyes. "Or maybe not, since we have a baby present. Yeah, remember me? 'Rejoice, O unwed bride'?" He held out his hand and a small silver hollow hexagon appeared in it; it was a jungar, the musical instrument associated with the Assistants of the Great Chemist, and banged in it. _Ding ding ding_ "You know, 'For I am Gambril, Catalyst of the Great Chemist _ding ding ding_ And I bring you glad tidings of hope and great joy.' _ding ding ding_ Any of this ringing a bell? Or at least a jungar?"

"It was you!" she recalled, "You were the practical joke organized by Meeblef!" She cocked her head. "Why do you look like a Gaarguan biped?"

"Ha! The sheer arrogance of sentient races," scoffed the self-proclaimed Catalyst, "They think we must all look like them. The Assistants of the Great Chemist are actually multidimensional waveforms of celestial intent, kiddo, and seeing as we had a radiation event thundering towards us, I didn't have time to mess around putting on my Froodian suit. There were more important things to worry about."

"Like my hair," griped the other being, feeling at its receding hairline, "Dennis, is it still all there?"

"I'd say so, dickhead," the winged animal sitting on his shoulder peered at his head, "Doesn't look any thinner than before."

"Well, I was talking about this little bundle of cute here," Gambril peered into the wrappings around Mirri's brooddaughter, "Dad would never have forgiven me if I'd let my very youngest sister get hurt! But thanks to Jimi here, she's just fine. Oh, she's just adorable! Looks like you're not the baby of the family any more, Crowliel, hee hee…"

"Don't call me that!" snapped the man in the dark clothes.

"But… who _are_ you?" she repeated.

"You know, for someone with the sort of education you've got, you're being annoyingly dumb," asserted Gambril, "I tried to Enunciate unto you, more than half a rotation ago, you aggravating little heretic! You shall bear the brooddaughter of the Great Chemist, I said. Though you be unwed, and Unflown, I said. Blessed shalt thou be amongst females, I said. Great joy, and the love of your Celestial Parent, the Great Chemist, shall she bring unto your race, I said. But did you listen, noooooo, Little Miss Atheist thought I was some sort of joke, and it's just a rare but perfectly explicable case of parthenogenesis. And I suppose the six golden wings, and the supersonic flight right through the side of a frigging mountain, they were just tricks of the light, hmmmm?"

Mirri's mouth dropped open then. "Well, if you're Gambril," she said slowly, "Who's he?"

"He's a lapsed Assistant," Gambril replied, as the man in dark garments squawked in outrage, 'Which, technically, makes him your brooddaughter's nephew, since he's her second-oldest brother's boy…" the other man let out another squawk, as Gambril looked thoughtful. "I guess you could call her Auntie Mirri, Crowley," he added helpfully."

"He doesn't look like an Assistant," she ventured. "You do a bit, I suppose, what with the wings, and the jungar. Even if you look like what a Gaarguan Assistant would be like."

"It's… complicated," the self-described Catalyst sighed. "You can think of him as the… child of Larrafa, the Brightcomet, my second oldest brother, who quarreled with our Father the Great Chemist and was Precipitated, to rule over the U-Trap, where this guy is running things now…"

"Wait a minute," the one called 'Crowley' narrowed his eyes at her. "You have a sibling, don't you? A brother? Younger than you? Wears corrective lenses? Far too intelligent for comfort? All his schooling peers hate him? And he spends all his time scheming about how miserable he'll make their lives years from now when he's their boss?"

"Er, yes," she confirmed, "Yes, that sounds exactly like Faddo."

"I knew it!" the biped called Crowley shrieked. "It was him! It was him!" He turned an accusing glare to Gambril. "In knew I'd seen this planet before! You dragged me here, with that bunch of music-mutilating midgets you called fledglings, for some Heralding work experience! Her brother was the little smartarse who shoved my jungar up my nose!"

"That was you?" she blinked in disbelief. "He told us that he'd been approached by a stranger who claimed to be an Assistant. We laughed about it over nightmeal."

"Does this mean," Crowley turned to Gabril, "That your Father has sent His kid to this lot, via this family of angel-assaulting atheists? Seriously? Where it – she – will be raised amongst a race that is so socially and scientifically advanced that they can't be far off proving that He doesn't exist? Is He insane? Or just getting senile?"

"Dad does work in mysterious ways," sighed Gambril. "It could have been worse."

"Worse?" demanded Crowley. "How could it possibly be worse?"

"Well, there was the little guy He sent to a large southern continent, about 4,000 years ago," Gambril replied. "The people there were nomadic, so the Son was born by the time I finally caught up with His tribe. I hung around to Tell the Three Clever Men and the hunting party about it, when the star appeared, but the Clever Men told me to go away because I was interrupting their dance, and the hunting party mistook me for the biggest cockatoo they'd ever seen and threw boomerangs at me. Those things hurt, I can tell you. Anyway, I finally caught up with Himself's tribe, and was about to Tell about Him, when I hear this woman's voice scream "A dingo's got my baby!"

Crowley stared at Gambril. "Are you telling me that your Father sent a Son to indigenous Australians, and He was eaten by wild dogs?"

"Not exactly," Gambril shrugged, "Improvise, adapt and overcome, and all that. Of course, canines weren't quite as receptive to the Good News as humans, what with them not being so highly sentient, but they rather liked the idea that there was Somebody Up There who cared about them. It certainly gave them something to hang on to when white people tried to exterminate them later."

"Are you telling me that dingoes believe in God?" demanded Crowley.

"Not exactly," grinned Gambril, "But they know that He believes in them."

"Ohhhh, I'm getting a headache," groaned Crowley, hugging the small fur-fleeb, which resumed kissing his nose, "I've got my dear little doggy back, I want to go home. Arrange it."

"Not safe, just yet," Gambril jerked a thumb upwards. "The radiation will pass soon, though, then we can…"

Mirri's gasp stopped them short. She was gazing at her brooddaughter. The small pale bundle was twitching and vigorously wiggling.

"Oh my," breathed Mirri, dropping to her foreknees and putting her precious bundle down. She pulled back the blanket, and the little pupa jackknifed and flipped over. As it did so, they could see that the carapace was beginning to split down the back. "She's… my daughter's emerging!" she shrieked. "She's emerging! Right now! But it's too early!"

"It's not, you know," Gambril cocked his head at the pupa, and smiled. "She's just right."

"But…" Mirri looked around wildly. "There should be a physician!" she cried, "There should be a brooding physician! And attendants! And a warming pad until her exoskeleton hardens! Do something!" she begged, "If you are truly Gambril, one of the Great Chemist's four Catalysts, do something!"

"Calm down, calm down," Gambril told her in a soothing voice, "Froodians emerged with no assistance except their broodmother's for millennia before physicians were invented. She'll do just fine. And as for a warming pad…"

The big fur-fleeb lay down close to the twitching pupa, nudging it gently with his nose, and apparently whuffing encouragement. They were endothermic, she remembered from her field research, a peculiarity of their physiology generating heat from within the body…

"If that Sibyl ever gets hold of this," moaned Crowley, "I will never live it down."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

No contemporary account of the Divine Emergence was written at the time – it never is, for these occasions.

During her lifetime, Jezza trained as a physician, but became known and revered amongst the Froodians as a philosopher and ethicist. (It was a mark of her caliber that she even persuaded her younger brother to be more civilized towards those to whom he was superior at Duty). Many years later, Mirri told her brooddaughter the strange tale of what she remembered of Jezza's emergence, and explained that it must've been the panic brought on by the radiation event, and being a first time broodmother, that led her to have such a vivid hallucination about the circumstances.

There were those who still practised the veneration of the Great Chemist, of course, even if it was usually as a sort of generalized recognition of one's insignificance in the face of the universe for most. But tales about Jezza's birth to an Unflown mother, and the strange description of her emergence, persisted, and were written down, many years after the fact. Those tales were collected with some from her working life, written by her, or about her, some accurate, some apocryphal, some complete fiction, but together they came to be regarded by some as, if not literal truth, an anthology of philosophical musings and parables that offered food for thought and perhaps provided new truths to those who cared to read them and consider them carefully…

A thousand years later, there would be Natality play re-enactments of the Emergence of the one some considered to be the actual brooddaughter of the Great Chemist. These took place in some educational facilities, around the time of the planetary winter, when Jezza had emerged – this was also conveniently coincident with the traditional long break from Duty that most Froodians enjoyed, so nobody got too hung up on exact dates.

There would be the usual squabbling amongst the young over who got to play which part. Mirri, the Unflown Mother, was always coveted by a certain sort of girl, because you got to dress in a very pretty costume, and pretend to be very grown up, and be in the centre of the play, plus, you got to hold baby Jezza, who was usually played by a doll. (Occasionally, you would get a precocious child who would point out that Mirri was supposed to have been a poor student, and so would have been wearing cheap garments, but as dressing up was half the fun, the proto-rationalist would be told to be quiet and get into his or her fleeb costume).

Being Gambril, the Catalyst who saved Mirri, meant that you got to wear the six-winged costume. If you were lucky enough to have basic theatre technology, you got to zoom through the air on a wire, Enunciating grandly unto the Unflown mother. (Any child who said that flying around in a cave would be quite dangerous, especially with six wings, and that Gambril was supposed to have stopped flying once he got to the cave, and anyway hadn't he already Enunciated unto the Blessed Unflown Mother earlier when she didn't believe him, would be told no, really, put on your fleeb costume. And go to the back.)

Cralley, the Ruler of the U-Trap, who had been sent by his hivefather Laraffa to report back on the Emergence of the Holy Child, appealed to a certain type of boy, because the costume traditionally had excrement down one shoulder, and even if the effect was usually achieved by tipping paint over the fabric, any sort of excrement joke never get old for some males (a statement which also held true amongst Gaarguan bipeds). For some reason, he was usually depicted with a jungar stuck up his nose, which also appealed to a certain type of male who found any reference to nose-picking to be utterly hilarious.

Not all the roles were Froodian, of course. There was the foul-mouthed avian that perched on Cralley's shoulder, traditionally played by someone standing behind Cralley wearing a fluffy head-dress, and given a licence to improvise inappropriate comments. The class clown would usually get that part, along with a warning about what would happen if the humour got too ripe for an occasion that many Froodians took quite seriously.

And of course, there was the animal that carried Baby Jezza through the rock, and curled around her until her exoskeleton hardened. He was usually depicted as a fleeb, since many Froodians at the time didn't know about the endothermic animals of the Gaarguan System's third planet. (Of course, you'd get the kid who'd demand to know how a fleeb would've been able to help instead of a heating pad, since everybody knew that fleebs were ectothermic, like Froodians, but they would just be told that Jeemee had been a very special fleeb, not an ordinary mortal fleeb like people's pets, sent from the Hive by the Great Chemist, to keep Baby Jezza safe until The Emergence, didn't I tell you to get into costume and go to the back?)

There would usually also be a group of other fleebs, so that the rest of the young would have parts to play, especially the most tone-deaf ones who really could not join in the Choir of Assistants, and maybe a few glorps standing around. That same kid who asked about the warming properties of an exothermic animal was usually the one who pointed out that it was highly unlikely that a whole bunch of ordinary fleebs, let alone some glorps, would be hanging around in a cave deep inside a volcanic formation just waiting for someone to come and have a pupa emerge, and how did they go through solid rock anyway, and how could they see because wouldn't it be dark? (They would be told that the light from Gambril's wings had lit up the cave, and Gambril and Jeemee were special beings who could mess with physics just a little bit to save the Great Chemist's Brooddaughter, and it could've been a pack of wild fleebs, and if you don't stop asking questions you will get the part of Rock Right At The Back Of The Cave, and Father Winter won't bring you any presents).

These Natality plays were as gut-wrenchingly awful as any sort of production with young in it can be, but the broodparents would cluster before the stage with their recorders, and the young would have a wonderful time, and even as they winced at the atonal efforts of the Choir of Assistants, the audience reflected that, whether you believed in the Great Chemist and the message of His Brooddaughter or not, anything that encouraged individuals to be more civilized and compassionate to each other couldn't be entirely a bad thing.

* * *

**bluroux:** For my trick, I shall make Crowley disappear, using only this bucketful of melted chocolate!

**Denizens:** Ooooh, wow, impressive, etc. etc. etc.

**Crowley:** Don't be ridiculous madam, I am a powerful demon - it will take a lot more than some chocolate to make me disappear.

_bluroux drags a pressure washer onstage, drops the inlet hose into the bucket, turns it on and aims it at Crowley until his clothing is washed off leaving him wearing nothing but a thick coating of 70% cocoa solids_

**Crowley:** AAAAAAAAAAARGH! _He scuttles offstage. Denizens applaud. bluroux bows, then heads offstage in pursuit._

Gabriel first had to go to Planet Frood to Enunciate unto Mirri the Blessed Virgin (who happened to be an educated atheist) at the end of 'Pack Up Your Troubles'. Crowley did a stint as Heaven's Most Reluctant Angel in 'In A Flap'. Neither of them particularly enjoyed those episodes.

Hang in there, Stewie, we're nearly there! Feed him reviews to get the plot bunny over the line! Reviews are he Serendipitous Avoidance Of The Appallingly Awful Nativity Plays Staged In Public Places By Schoolchildren In The Christmastime Of Life!


	17. Chapter 17

Um, yes, that kid who asked awkward questions at Sunday School might've been me. It was questioning the scrawny, lily-white specimen nailed to a cross at Easter that finally saw me expelled at the grand old age of six. I just thought that Jesus would've worked at carpentry from as soon as he was old enough to help Joseph, which would've been hard physical work, outdoors, and he would've walked everywhere (the occasional stint of donkey-riding notwithstanding); I had this mental picture of him as being trim, taut, tanned and terrific, more a buff lifesaver than an anaemic anorexic accountant. Plus I couldn't work out where the eggs and the rabbits came into it, because there were no rabbits mentioned in the Nativity; frankly, I think it was my earnest question about whether Jesus laid eggs as some sort of Easter miracle that might've been the chocolate egg that broke the camel's back…

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

"Hey, Cas!" beaming sunnily, Gabriel strolled into the small space near the Throne Room that Castiel used as his office. Jimi Senior trotted happily at his side. "Wayward pups found, and brought home! You're not going to believe what Jimi was actually up to…"

"Oh, I think I could make a fairly accurate guess," smiled the figure that pored over the parchments on the desk, "It's the whole omniscience gig…"

"Dad!" Gabriel flew at his Father, arms open. "Hug me, Fathaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

The Almighty chuckled as the grace of His youngest archangel whizzed around Him, a happy comet orbiting an infinite galaxy of celestial love. "Hello to you too, My child," God laughed. "And to you also," He added, extending an heavenly hand to pat Jimi on the head. "What a good boy you are. What a clever boy."

"Thanks, Dad," beamed Gabriel.

"I was talking to the dog," God did the celestial equivalent of roll His eyes.

"So, what are You doing back here?" asked Gabriel, as Jimi nudged God for more pats, "I thought You were off on sabbatical, doing some more Creation."

"Oh, I am, I am," nodded his Heavenly Father, "But given the, ahem, incident in the Field of Reeds, I thought it would best smooth things over if I wrote the letter of apology Myself." He indicated the scroll He was working on.

"It's not going to be the whole firstborn thing again, is it?" asked Gabriel in a worried voice, "There's so many more people there now."

"Of course not," God reassured him, "Osiris will huff and puff, but he'll come around. Definitely in time for our next Trivia Night – he just loves Persephone's baklava. Speaking of that, did you have a chance to speak to the Allfather, are we still on for trivia next century?"

"Oh, yes, he asked me to remind you," Gabriel nodded. "So, how's the new Creation going?"

"Oh, it's well and truly underway now – sentient beings have evolved – it's up to chance, random possibilities and the motion of the universe from here. They're so much more interesting that the whole In-My-Image thing. And I will thank you," He frowned at Gabriel, "To keep your interference to an absolute minimum this time."

"I thought you liked the platypus," complained Gabriel.

"Those bits weren't 'left over', Gabriel," God insisted sternly, "The beak was for a species of duck, the fur was for a species of otter, the tail was supposed to go to a small beaver, the monotreme chassis was for the echidna, and I was planning to use those 'spurs' as the fangs on a venomous snake. And as for the angler fish…"

"Hey, all I did was introduce some early bony fishes to some other early bony fishes," Gabriel protested. "You know, set the scene, maybe some nice music, then boy scents girl, boy finds girl, boy burrows into girl's flesh and embeds himself in her body and fuses with her circulatory system to live off her as a parasite until she spawns, boy fertilizes girl's eggs…"

"Gabriel, you messed with the selection process for the express purpose of breeding a fish of a certain appearance," God stated, "So that you could show it to Uriel and claim to have found something even uglier than him, which represented a lack of Charity, a callous disregard for the fish involved, and a direct violation of the Prime Directive…"

"Aaaaargh! Don't do that!" yelped Gabriel. "Don't say that! There's nothing quite as cringe-inducing as hearing a parent appropriate one of your cultural icons! It's like watching them dance to your favourite rock song in front of your friends! It's like seeing them sag their pants! Or twerk in public!"

"Well, there's nobody here except Me," God sounded just the slightest bit smug. "And Jimi, of course. Speaking of which," He addressed the dog directly, "Shouldn't you be heading back to Denariel? She has been beside herself, waiting for news of you. Go on, run along. You did your job, and you're a good boy."

Seemingly content with this praise from The Almighty, Jimi spun around in a happy little circle, woofed cheerfully, then loped off, fading out as he headed back to the Garden of Companions.

"If anyone had told me that an ex-Hellhound would come to the rescue of my baby sister, I'd have told them they were on drugs," commented Gabriel. "That, or they should be."

"The thing that people forget about Hellhounds and their ilk," God explained, "Is that, at the core of their being, they are bred to protect the living. How they do that may vary, depending on their situation, but that's at the base of what they are. And he was trained up as a Hunter's dog by Dean Winchester. Belisario – Jimi – is an archetypal Good Dog. But that was an impressive save of the Blessed Unflown Mother on your part," God complimented His angel, "That was well done, My child."

"Maybe," Gabriel sighed, "But I still don't think she believes in You."

"That doesn't matter," God smiled, "I believe in her, and that will suffice. So, how is your most reluctant fledgling brother, Crowliel?" He went on innocently. "I would drop by and ask him Myself, but he does seem to become somewhat tongue-tied in My presence, I really cannot think why."

Gabriel considered the question. "I think the word we're looking for is 'traumatised'," he replied finally. "Or possibly 'soiled'. One of Kali's vultures adopted him."

"How lovely for him," God mused, "Very intelligent birds, vultures, I find them entirely endearing. On that topic, am I going to get to meet your Beloved any time this eon?" He cocked an heavenly eyebrow at Gabriel.

"Daaaaaaaad," whined Gabriel, "Geez, you're as bad as Mutti…"

"You can't blame Me, or Freya, for taking an interest," tutted God, "It's a parent thing. I just want all My children to be happy. Surely you understand that. And then there's the matter of My grandchildren. Grandchildren are supposed to be your revenge on your kids, according to humans and Froodians; I believe that I am supposed to take them for an afternoon, fill them with rich food and unhealthy treats, give them gifts they don't really warrant, encourage them to run around until they are in a screaming frenzy, then give them back to you…"

Gabriel let out a horrified squeak.

"Well, perhaps it can wait," God conceded. "However, I do have a job for you, My senior Messenger. As I indicated to you, sentient life has arisen in My most recent Creation. My child, I charge you with appearing unto them as My Herald, to Disclose unto them that…"

"What? _Another_ one?" squawked Heaven's most senior Messenger. "I've only just recovered from Enunciating unto the Froodians, and you want me to Disclose unto a whole new planet? I've been singed, whacked and had watchfleebs set on me! Why do I have to do a Disclosure? Michael is doing police work, Raphael is doing donkey rescue, and Lucifer is doing my daughter, why do I have to get back on the job again? Again again, in fact. I collided with a frigging _satellite_, Dad! I need some R&R!"

"Hmmmm," God drew His impressive Holy Eyebrows together in thought. "Well, if you want some down time, I suppose there isn't any rule that it absolutely has to be you who does the Disclosing. I could send another Herald, if you'd prefer. I shall leave the delegation to you, then." He handed over a scroll. "You can pass on the information to whomever you choose. It's quite an amazing place, really. Think of it, an entire planet made of chocolate! Who would ever have foreseen that? Of course, the Mother Untouched belongs to a devout family, so whoever goes will have to be prepared for some serious Revering, and being plied with the traditional welcome, which consists of feasting on a foodstuff that bears a remarkable resemblance to what humans call 'pizza', and consumption of copious amounts of intoxicating fermented beverage…"

"I'm on it!" Gabriel chirped brightly, snatching up the parchment, "Beam me up, Scotty!"

With an indulgent smile, God sent His Messenger on his way with a gentle flick of His infinite grace.

Thankfully, the appearance of the Representative of the Master Chocolatier was a textbook Revelation. The Disclosure went according to plan, Gabriel (in his guise as Gumball) was revered and treated as an honoured visitor and the Mother Untouched knelt modestly to ask for his blessing before he left.

There was even what he thought of as a Trickster's perk to the whole shebang. Gumball was traditionally depicted as bearing a musical instrument that bore a strong resemblance to a tuba, and he spent quite some time hiding behind the Choir's stalls in the Throne Room, tooting low frequency noises at odd intervals, until the Seraphim were looking askance at each other and muttering things like "Good grief, was that you, you disgusting individual? And in Father's Throne Room, too."

He even spent some time trying to produce a low frequency wavelength of celestially musical intent that would be the Heavenly equivalent of The Brown Note, but with no success, so he decided that the whole idea must've been an urban myth, and contented himself with making the Choir accuse each other of furtive flatulence.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

When he arrived back in Hell, Crowley resisted the impetus to drop to the floor and kiss it, because he knew who'd been dismembered on the carpet, but it was a near thing.

"Hello, Mr Crowley!" beamed Orgle, the indispensable Fiend Friday, taking his jacket and handing him a large glass of scotch. "I'm so glad you found Gedda!"

"Well, we're back," the King of Hell sighed, putting down Gedda. The little Hellpoodle wagged her tail and rushed to greet Orgle. "I shouldn't bother with that jacket if I were you, Orgle, I don't think it's good for much except bedding for a litter of implets."

"And who is this?" asked Orgle, all his mouths smiling.

"Who is who?" demanded Crowley. "There's just me, Orgle."

"Hallo! Hallo!" squawked a voice behind him. "Who's a perverted boy, then?"

"Gaaaaaah!" yelped Crowley, spinning around. "Dennis! What are you doing here? Why don't you go home? Shoo!"

"Nice digs, pigfucker." Dennis looked around, then fluttered from the back of the sofa to Crowley's shoulder. "I think I'm going to like it here, dickhead."

"Oh, Mr Crowley, you've adopted a vulture!" Orgle enthused. "Or rather, one has adopted you. How wonderful! Oh, look at his beautiful plumage! They're very intelligent birds, you know. You should be flattered."

"That allegedly intelligent bird," growled Crowley, "Is the one who ruined that jacket!"

"Well, you'll have to be more careful with him around," Orgle cautioned. "Frankly, Mr Crowley, if you do something to startle a vulture sitting on your shoulder, you're probably asking for it."

"I like him, pigfucker," chittered Dennis, as Crowley chittered in outrage. "I'm Dennis. Are you Orgle, was it? Hallo! Hallo!"

"Yes, that's me!" the fiend boomed happily. "I'm Mr Crowley's administrative assistant! And this is my friend Phlegmgob." A small imp emerged from Orgle's pelt, scampered up to his shoulder, then farted a greeting to Dennis. "And I see you've already met Gedda." The little Hellpoodle yipped in agreement. "Well, Dennis, this is very exciting! If you're going to stay, will you need a perch? Or would you prefer a potted acacia? There are some very impressive potted thorn trees in the throne room, I could bring one in…"

"What?" spluttered Crowley. "You can't go dragging a potplant in here, just for him!"

"Well, the sofa really isn't suitable," Orgle said just a little reproachfully. "Dennis's feet are adapted for perching on solid tree limbs, not squishy upholstery. It won't be good for him to try to perch there."

"An acacia would be great, Orgle," Dennis bobbed his head happily, "But this is okay too." He fluttered to the sofa, and made himself comfortable. Gedda jumped up beside him, whuffed, and began to groom his feathers. "Sitting on a soft squashy sofa is pretty much like sitting on a soft squashy carcass. Who's a comfy boy, then?"

Orgle looked thoughtful. "If you'd like a squashy carcass to sit on, I could have a word with Vorz from Maintenance, he oversees the upkeep of the racks down in The Pit, and…"

"No!" Crowley snapped. "Stop right there! Nobody, _nobody_, is bringing pieces of rotting Damned in here so that Dennis doesn't get homesick! He can make do with a potplant, or even the sofa, if he wants to, but the only one who gets to drag demons, Damned, or anybody else, in here, and turn them into carrion, is me! Do I make myself clear?"

"Wow," breathed Dennis, "You're inspirational when you're angry, dickhead, you know that?"

"It's why he's boss Down Here," Orgle sighed, the light of admiration in his eyes.

Crowley let out a small moan, and sank down onto the sofa. Gedda put her head on his lap and let out a little humph of contentment, and Dennis bobbed up and down in a happy little dance.

"If you crap on my jacket again, I will wring your scrawny bald neck," he muttered.

"I promise I'll try to be more discerning with my deposits, dickhead," Dennis chattered, resting his head on top of Crowley's. "It's good to be home, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes," sighed Crowley, resigned to the fact that his immediate coterie had acquired an avian adherent, "There's no place like home. Now, if only I could remember where I left my ruby slippers."

There being no rest for the wicked, the King of Hell had not even finished his drink when one of the Hierarchy came barging in with some complaint about the way he was running the place, and threaten to turn him into a sulphurous little smear if he didn't Arrange Things right away…

Duke Anghaar didn't talk about what happened, but he was seen running shrieking from the office, the seat torn out of his trousers, his ears pecked bloody, and a large splodge of guano right between his eyes.

It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless, and Crowley would take them where he could get them; when the package of jalebis arrived from Kali, he saved a few for himself, gave some to Orgle, and divided the rest between Gedda and Dennis.

_**THE END**_

* * *

Wait for it… wait for it…

_SQUELCH_

And that's another plot bunny stomped! And so we say goodbye to Stewie, a plot bunny who had to work under difficult circumstances, but came through nonetheless in the end. It does my heart good to see him lying there, all flat and squashed, with that last dying look of WTF on his face. Maybe we can get Dennis along to deal with the mess later.

Usually, there's only a possible visit from a certain van left after a Lampito story, but is anybody interested, since we don't actually have any Winchesters in this one (except for the amazing inter-chapter tricks performed by some of The Denizens). Plus, it's still not determined whether the bus, to which the DDD&SSS has had to upgrade, is ready to go, what with the transmission difficulties (although I suppose TBO could ask Bobby about that). If nothing else, I suppose they could clean Stewie off the tarmac.

At any rate, Reviews are the Excursions* To The Chocolate Planets In The Galaxy Of Life! (Bring your own spoon).

*If the DDD&SSS was interested, they could always go in the bus, I suppose.


End file.
